Revival of Nature
by devotedmuse
Summary: There is a good, full feeling that comes with taking a life. And if asked, James Patrick March would deny that it could be found someplace else saying, "I've had it all; fame, fortune... None of it satisfied." Until now. Enter a songstress named Rosaline who stirs up feelings more satiating than murder.
1. Sweet Libation

**Author's Note:** My chapters will be long, villains cruel, and their women irresistible. This story is rated M for a reason as violence and all other vices will be mentioned. So if it's not your cup of tea, kindly venture into another cafe. But if it is... Enjoy.

* * *

 **Sweet Libation**

There was a silly superstition that carried on throughout the centuries about his kind, something along the lines of ghosts can't roam the earth; that when they die if it's violent, they are destined to remain where they fell. This is true for all but a special breed of men. You see, when one is truly volatile, possessing a devil on one shoulder and a thirst for blood on the other, there are no rules that can govern him, and most certainly no four walls that can hold him back.

Twirling his cane in one hand, James Patrick March buried the other deep into his trouser pocket, whistling as he swaggered along the sidewalk. A few pedestrians stopped and stared. But how could they not? There was something in the way he moved, that nonchalant air mingled with his highborn affinity that willed them all to take notice.

As with his extended life, if you could call it that, there were some things that remained and others that changed. Beginning with the latter, the changed consisted of the people around him, the fashion, the vernacular, and the lack of propriety. What remained was his civility, the vernacular of his era, the fashion of his time, and above all his ways. Furthermore, the innate charisma that madmen like himself were famed for still lingered, increasing with every year that passed. It made for quite an effect; women simply couldn't look away.

As he paused under a street lamp a woman in a simple red dressed eyed him appreciatively. Her jade green eyes took in his black wingtips that were polished to a shine, rose high along his black trousers and jacket, and went further still. A grin came to her lips at the sight of his black silk ascot tied around his neck and folded neatly into his shirt. Biting her lower lip, she pressed the traffic button, willing the lights to change so she could introduce herself.

He could feel her eyes on him; snaking across his person felt, tasted, her hankering. Whistling to himself once more he reached into his pocket. Making note of the time, he snapped his gold pocket watch shut and as he did so, made sure his eyes clashed with hers.

The unknown woman stood up straighter, a shiver racing down her spine as she stared into his fathomless gaze. As the light flickered from green to yellow and then red, he took a step off the busy sidewalk and walked out into the street.

Holding her gaze, he crossed the intersection, feeling her attraction grow with every step he took. That's how he got them all. In that second glance, he showed them that raw carnal desire that they sought after.

"Hello," she said when he stepped onto the sidewalk. "I like your suit. It's very nice."

The corners of his lips tilted up in a smile. "Thank you," he purred in his deep baritone, dark eyes gleaming in the light. "You look ravishing yourself."

A blush formed on her cheeks and her green eyes shined like jewels. "Maybe we could..."

"Sorry, but I have a previous engagement. Perhaps another time." Turning his head, he continued on down the street dismissing her. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, she was beautiful, but the kill... The kill would have been easy. And he wasn't in the mood for easy. No, he wanted a challenge.

It was the pursuit of something unique: a kill worthwhile, which had him venturing out so late in his finery. Through the years he had done it all: hunted, maimed, bedded, controlled, asphyxiated, tortured, and poisoned. But now he wanted to try something new. And no, it was not to corrupt a soul, he had Devil's Night to prove how many times he had succeeded in that. No, this would be a challenge for himself and a true test of patience.

How long could he go without killing a prized specimen? It was on a slow evening at the Hotel Cortez that he muddled over this very question. Sitting by the window with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, he stared out at the falling rain, trying to decide which killing was the best. After a spell, it became apparent that the chase was exciting, the murder itself thrilling, but the true exhilarating pleasure came when he waited. And so few times he had the patience to wait.

Now mind you, all the killings were pleasant, but on those few occasions when he wined them, dined them, courted his victims expertly, he saw that beautiful hope rise in their eyes and could taste it on their skin. And when the moment came, when he twisted the blade, pulled the trigger, or sealed that last brick he saw it: that horrified look of betrayal and despair in their gaze when they knew that all was lost. That there could be no reasoning.

How it brought him to ecstasy! The screams that came from these few women, their cries of love and devotion, mingled with pleas for mercy, that delectable, _"Please, James don't!" "I love you, James. Please don't do this." "Stop! Please! I beg you!"_ Those words were the sweetness; that last little bit of flavor that came from the gluttonous banquet of death. And he wanted to feast on that sweetness one more time.

Waltzing in and out of crowds, he scanned the people around him. Jaw clenched in anticipation, he waited for the unknown victim to reveal herself. _What will it be tonight James?_ He asked himself. _A believer, non-believer, someone loose and immoral or a good heart to slay?_ What trait would he fancy for this first encounter? Thinking about it, he came to the conclusion that if he not only wanted that sweet taste but was going to pace himself, then his latest victim would need to do the impossible: gain his attention and keep it. But where would he find such a woman?

A couple rushed past him suddenly, issuing an apology when they almost bumped into him. "Come on, we're going to be late." The man said to his companion.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" She replied, running in her heels. "Do you think we'll miss her?"

"At this pace, I wouldn't be surprised if we already did." When the girl stopped dead in her tracks the man apologized. "I'm just teasing," he drawled, taking her hand. "They save the best for last and we'll arrive just in time. Now let's go. I hear the club will be playing a few of the classics like Glenn Miller."

While James was a man of specific taste he did have a penchant for music. Some, not all, and jazz was right up there with his beloved big-band swing. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he mused aloud. Picking up his pace, he followed the couple, the clicking of his heels drowned out by the rushing LA crowd.

In no time at all the music reached him. It was all heart and bones—drums and trombones—but when the spirit reached him, the piano, he smiled. _Caravan_. A classic, even if it was after his time.

Rounding the corner, he saw the building. It was large and modern yet somehow old. Tilting his head back, he eyed the sign: The Black Orchid. _Interesting._

"Well, what do we have here?"

Lowering his gaze, he spied a young black woman exiting the club. She was dressed down in jeans and a blouse, braided hair pulled back from her oval face.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked, brow furrowed.

Leaning against the brick wall, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. "Shit," she drawled with a grin. "Not only is the suit a blast from the past, but you've got the accent down too." Lighting her cigarette she took a drag, and blowing out smoke said, "You sure this club is for you? You look a little out of your element."

"Well, now that depends," he spoke, still in his famed 20's brogue and making her smile. "Is there a kick," he inquired, hitting the K hard and making her laugh, "a thrill to be had?" Taking another long drag of her cigarette she nodded her head.

"Then I am in my element."

The moment he stepped into the gloomy jazz club he felt the malevolent hearts of the patrons around him. Of course, there were good-natured people mixed in, but the soul of the club was a dark as the Cortez herself. And it made him feel right at home.

Eyeing the red carpet and lavish furnishings he spied a piece of prime real-estate, a table dead center of the stage and he wanted it. Gliding across the floor James became the murmur of many a table. True to his upbringing, he gave how do you do's for the women and curt nods to the men, but no more than that.

"Yeah, so when this is over baby lets go back to my place and..."

"Excuse me," James interrupted, breaking the conversation between a vivacious redhead and a young man with blue eyes and fair hair. "It appears that you and I are in a bit of a predicament. You see, you are in the best seat in the house and quite frankly I want it."

The young man arched a brow, slinking back further into his seat. "Yeah, sure," he replied sarcastically. "You can have it as soon as I'm finished!" Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the woman. "Now, like I was saying..."

"I'm afraid you don't understand how this works."

"Look asshole, I don't..." he broke off when James, placing his hand on his shoulder, squeezed painfully.

Face still the perfect mask of calm James leaned forward, coming in close to the man. To the outside world, it looked like a polite conversation, it was anything but. "Mind your manners, child," he began, dark eyes gleaming viciously. "I am far too old to be disrespected or trifled with." As the man opened his mouth to argue he paused, something flashed in James dark gaze that silenced him, nearly stopping his heart.

Knowing the man was scared into obedience James continued. "Now I want this seat," he told him, "and know now that I will have it. If you choose so you may save face by simply rising, offering the lady your arm, and leaving. If you dare to disobey..." His cane came up and with a flick of his wrist, a hint of the blade showed making the man inhale sharply. "...I will gut you where you sit and still I will take this seat. Now boy," he said, sliding the blade back into place and rising to his full height, "what choice will you make?"

Swallowing hard the man wanted to defy him, but it was that look in his eye along with that dark promise that made him choose correctly. Pushing back from the table, he stood up. "It was nice meeting you," he lied smoothly in an attempt to save face. Smoothing down his maroon shirt, he turned to the woman beside him. "Let's go." Grabbing her purse, she rose from her seat and took his arm.

"Such a shame you can't stay for the show," James called in mock disappointment as they made their exit. "Nevertheless, have a most pleasant evening!"

Unbuttoning his jacket James opened it to reveal a starched white shirt and gold and red trellis suspenders. As soon as he took his seat a waitress in a simple black dress appeared. "Hello handsome," she sang, picking up the two discarded drinks and putting them on her tray. "Might I just say you are working that suit?"

"Right," he replied, not really sure how it was a compliment. "Thank you."

Chuckling at his accent, she gave a small shake of her head and placing her hand on her hip said, "Well, I'm Kate and seeing as I've never laid eyes on you before, why don't give me your order?"

"Kate, my dear," he began, reaching into his coat pocket and removing a cigar, "if I said that I wanted to be driven Southside, would you know my meaning?" When she gave a slight shake of her head he went on. "A Southside is a prohibition gem and it consists of four things: gin, lime, mint, and a simple syrup. But do be so kind as to hold that syrup," he instructed cutting his cigar, "and give me an extra shot of gin." Bringing the cigar to his lips, he concluded, "I need a strong drink to prepare my palate for an upcoming treat and going Southside is just the thing to do it."

Standing there with the music playing in the background, she watched as white smoke billowed out around him and was stunned speechless. Just who on earth was he?

"Kate," he said firmly, "my drink."

"Oh, y-yes," she fumbled, snapping back to attention. "Right on it."

As she rushed off to take his order to the bar an older gentleman at the table beside his gave a raspy laugh. The man was portly, with salt and pepper hair, and sky blue eyes. "I haven't seen someone with that much cool since I was a young man," he told him. James couldn't help but smile.

"Well, that must have been a recent time," James told him with a grin. "After all, you don't look a day past your prime!"

"Oh no, my prime has come and gone," he said in such a way that it was James who laughed heartily next. "But it's nice to see another man living in his. I'm Donovan," he said, extending his hand.

"James," he returned, giving the man a firm handshake. The two men made idle chit-chat about the club and its patrons as well as the music before they were interrupted.

"Here you go," Kate said, placing his drink on the table.

It was a bit of a nuisance how some things went out of fashion such as proper service. One must always serve on the left and take from the right. Knowing it would be a wasted lesson, James bit back his agitated response and took a sip of his drink.

The liquor went down smooth. "Perfection," he sang. Reaching into his coat, the cigar still in hand, he removed his billfold. "This is for you," he told her, producing a crisp hundred dollar bill, "and another to keep them coming. Keep an eye on me and I'll give you a signal when I desire another." Pocketing the money she gave him a curt nod and set off toward the back, vowing mentally to keep all eyes on him for the duration of his stay.

Seeing Donovan in deep conversation with the woman next to him, James reclined back in his seat, rested his right ankle on his left knee, and focused his eyes on the stage. Drowning the first drink in record time, he lifted his cane into the air, giving it a little shake. It wasn't a wasted action. In seconds, the waitress appeared and taking his glass, set a new drink on the table. This one somehow better than the last.

It never failed. Music was always a transportation back in time. Staring off into the distance he swore he could see it, all of it, the railway cars, boys in caps trying to hustle and pass off old newspapers for a nickel, the parties, and the endless shouts about prohibition. So vivid were the memories of his past that when he inhaled he scented dirt and stale perfume. It didn't matter how many years passed, that first kill was always at the forefront of his mind.

The song ended and applause sounded bringing an end to his stupor. "Thank you! Thank you!" the male host exclaimed, dressed in all black. "As most of you may know we pay homage to the greats around here, but every so often we find a tune that needs to be jazzed up and played with a twist. It is with this formula in mind that I introduce a club favorite and one of our own, Miss Rosaline!"

A dark brow went up at the applause the name produced. Turning his head, he motioned to Donovan. "Is all this fanfare," he said, motioning around to the still clapping patrons, "worthy of the songstress?"

"Yes," Donovan answered. "Girls got pipes for days."

Without warning the lights went out and a hush settled over the crowd. All that could be seen where the tiny red ends of cigarettes and James cigar. The darkness stretched, appropriately so, making everyone who knew what was coming wait on baited breath.

A single spotlight came on and if breathing were necessary James would have been robbed of oxygen. Lowering his cigar, James dark eyes fell to Rosaline. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen. She was Spanish, with sun-kissed skin and a heart shaped face, possessing midnight eyes, and wavy shoulder length hair. Standing before the crowd, she looked about her, her pouty red lips curving into a smile. It was the kind of rare smile that when given made others smile in return. James couldn't help the cheeky grin that appeared on his lips, no more than the next man or woman could.

Planting his cigar firmly in between his teeth, his heated gaze wandered over the beauty. Her gown was strapless and lace, form-fitting to reveal her ample breasts, trim waist, and the flair of her hips; at about mid-thigh the material became translucent, showcasing her long shapely legs. A dazzling light filtered into his eyes when he saw the gold design along the hem of her dress. Art Deco, just like his hotel. Licking his lips, he brought his gaze back up her body deeply interested but not pulled. Not yet.

"To be frank," Rosaline spoke, at last, her voice naturally husky, "when I was told of the era we were to cover I knew it wasn't for me. It wasn't because the songs have been heard one too many times, but due to the fact that I was feeling a little... shot down," she said, earning herself one more smile from James. "Rather than sing an old favorite I decided to tell you why I was taking such a heavy blow that morning. Oh, and don't worry," she quickly added, "the dress may fit like a glove, but there's plenty enough room for me to _sway_."

 _Cheeky_. James mused to himself. "I like that," he spoke, nodding his head for emphasis.

Rosaline began to hum. It was simple, just: hmm, hmmm, hmmm. Hmm, hmmm, hmmm. As her humming grew louder her hips began to sway. Hmm, hmmm, hmmm. On the third rotation of her hips the drumming started, the guitarist struck his chord, and her song began.

 _I was five, and he was six  
We rode on horses made of sticks  
He wore black, and I wore white  
He would always win the fight_

Her voice was pure intoxication; like the sound of a throaty, guttural, scream. Exhaling the smoke from his cigar, James sat up straighter, eyes rooted to her frame.

 _Seasons came and changed the time  
When I grew up I called him mine  
He would always laugh and say:  
Remember when we used to play_

The feeling was swift and encompassing, coming upon him without the slightest bit of warning. It was that light headed feeling which came when he took life; it blanketed his mind in a thick fog, making his chest buff out as he inhaled, only to exhale slowly, spine tingling with pleasure. How had she done it? How had her voice given him that good, full feeling?

 _Music played, and people sang  
Just for me, the church bells rang  
Now he's gone, I don't know why  
Until this day sometimes I cry  
_

 _He didn't even say Goodbye  
He didn't take the time to lie...  
_

The music came to a dramatic halt. "Bang," she spoke, her word echoed on by two other singers who appeared from opposite ends of the stage. Bang. Bang. Bang. **BANG!** The three women stepped off the stage and onto the floor. "He shot me down!" _Bang bang._ "I hit the ground!" _Bang bang._ "That awful sound." _Bang bang._ "My baby shot me down!" She sang, the beat of the song speeding up and taking off, giving her the cue to dance.

She danced in the same way in which he committed murder; wild and with full abandon. As the band played on adding to the splendid morbidity of her song, she shook her shoulders and swayed her hips, causing her dress to rise up and twirl about. Doing a little shimmy, she flipped her hair back and their eyes clashed.

For a moment, she went deaf and became blind to everything except for him. It was something in his gaze lurking just below the darkness that called to her, marked her. Pulling her eyes away from him, Rosaline regained control.

The three women came together hips swaying slowly as the original beat of the song returned. Finishing her song she sang:

Bang bang. He shot me down  
Bang bang. I hit the ground  
Bang bang. That awful sound  
Bang bang. My baby shot _me down_

Thunderous applause sounded as the song came to an end. Rising to his feet James clapped madly. "Bravo!" He shouted with the others. "Bravo!" He cheered once more. "Bra-fucking-vo," he breathed.

"Now you tell me, son, was she worth the applause?" Donovan asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Most definitely," James answered without hesitation. "It was good. Damn good!"

Laughing heartily Donovan shook his head. He knew that look; that look had him marrying young and settling down. "Now if you'll excuse me," James said, watching as Rosaline made her way to the back with the other two singers. "There is an introduction that begs to be made."

"What a good a show," Elizabeth squealed in Rosaline's ear. "I didn't know you could move like that Rosa! Are you sure you don't have a man in your life?" She asked with a wiggle of her brows. Rosaline rolled her eyes heavenward, the action causing Elizabeth to giggle.

"Hey, hurry up you two," Katherine instructed coming up from behind. "We have another song and we need to change. Come on, let's go!" Katherine grabbed Elizabeth's hand and pulled her along with the knowing that the woman could talk for days if left to her own device. Already the next group was onstage playing a slow version of _I'm in the Mood for Love_ and the two backup singers quickly darted through the side curtain.

No sooner had Rosaline lifted the curtain when a voice rang out from behind.

"Pardon me, but dare I say that your performance tonight was phenomenal and that you yourself were riveting!"

The curtain fell from her grasp and flowed back into place. Turning around Rosaline stared into eyes far darker than her own. "Thank you," she returned, finally finding her voice. "Thank you very much." Midnight eyes roamed over the handsome, enigmatic stranger. He was tall and in possession of a slim, though, muscular build. Briefly, her eyes wandered over his dark brown hair that was slicked back and his trim mustache that was groomed to perfection before settling once more on his eyes. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

Smiling, he nodded his head. "Oh, where are my manners," he said suddenly extending his hand. "I am James March and you are?"

"Rosaline Cortez."

Out of all the surnames in the world, she possessed his favorite, second only to his own. Clasping her hand in his own, he leaned forward with an expert bow and kissed the back of her hand.

The kiss lingered, his lips placing an intangible seal on her that sent a shiver down both their spines. "It is a pleasure to meet you Miss Rosaline Cortez." Releasing her hand and straightening to his full height, he said, "Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if you would like to join me for a drink?"

This wasn't the first man to offer her a drink after a show, however, he was the first to do so properly. Even though it was good and proper she knew better. "I would love to, but I can't. I have another song coming up. Perhaps another time," she told him in an attempt to soften the blow.

"Perhaps another time," he repeated, gripping his cane tightly. "By saying that you are giving me the go ahead to call on you in the near future," he informed her. "So may I?" he inquired, voice deepening. "May I call on you?" It felt like she was playing with fire, that by saying yes, she would be making a deal with the devil. Every fiber of her being was telling her to say no, to run away, and he sensed it.

It was his primal instinct. Just as he knew who in the club was a murderer and philanderer, he knew who was hurt and suffering, pure and... guarded. Staring into her eyes, he saw her hesitation and knew her mind was quickly formulating a rejection.

"Rosa," Katherine called, poking her head through the curtain, "what are you doing? We go on in five, you have to change!"

Taking full advantage of the interruption James spoke up. "Don't allow me to keep you." Reaching out, he took her hand and once more placed a kiss on the back of it. "Until we meet again, Miss Cortez," he spoke huskily, eyes gleaming with dark promise. Releasing her hand, he inclined his head to Katherine and turning on his heel strolled away.

"Who on earth was that?" Katherine asked, nearly blown away by his impeccable manners.

Eyes glued to James' broad back, Rosaline watched as he made his way toward the exit with long, purposeful strides. Licking her lips, she clasped her hands together, eyes flying down to the back of her hand. She was surprised to see that it bore no mark, heaven knew his touch burned.

"March," Rosaline answered, at last, raising her gaze just in time to see him turn back to look at her. "His name is James March."

* * *

 _This is not the end but the beginning. I have very big plans for this story._


	2. An Impromptu Scene

**Author's Note:** I was so moved by all of the follows/favorites, that I went ahead and wrote the next chapter. _*Note that Donovan is inspired by actor Tim Robbins._

 _PorcelainPuppetLady:_ Here's your update and the answer to your question is in the story ;). So thrilled to know that you love the story. Oh, and by the way, I adore your username. It makes me want to write a Scarecrow Fan-Fic.

 _Ngome055:_ I'm glad you enjoy the story. I too find it best when Evan plays a villain; he does it so well, truly he becomes the character he is playing. And thank you for the comments on my leading lady. I'm going to have to make her a real tough cookie to put up with March as well as interesting. I think it will be quite enjoyable to see how their relationship progresses over the course of the story.

 _Ariedling:_ Thanks for your comment. I'm happy you like the story!

* * *

 **An Impromptu Scene**

It became apparent to him that he had been snubbed; dismissed expertly on the false promise of a possible chance encounter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the host himself say that she was the houses own?"

Setting his brandy on the table, Kate gave a quick shake of her head. "No, you don't understand." Placing her tray under her arm, she tucked a loose honey blonde curl behind her ear, blue eyes right on James when she explained. "Rosa isn't a headliner; she doesn't even work here! When Vick called her the houses own it's because she grew up around these parts." When he remained silent she rambled on. "The only reason she was here last week was at Vicks request. Kind of like a special show for those who know about her. That's why it was so crowded. She's got talent, but she doesn't live for the limelight. You wouldn't believe it, but she's actually a..."

"Kate," the bartender called. When he caught her eye, he motioned to the drinks which were piling up.

"Ugh, have to go. Enjoy your drink honey."

The minute she was out of his sight James tightened his grip on his cane, eyes flashing. It was a rookie mistake. Interest piqued by Rosaline he had come back to see her. Not right away mind you, as it would have shown too much eagerness, but he had waited a week. So high, in fact, was the feeling he received from her that he had himself a little spree, a _feast_ before hibernation. But that was all for naught.

Staring off into the distance he envisioned her wagging tongue nailed to his office desk. 'P _erhaps another time,' she told him._ He balled his hand into a tight fist, knuckles cracking as he remembered her words. And to think he was willing to wait before murdering her, a rare kindness in itself, but that thought was long gone now that the bitch had spurned him.

Reaching for his glass he heard the soft crack as a hairline fracture formed. Not caring if it shattered or remained whole he brought the glass to his lips and drained it in one shot.

" **Kate!"**

Her name was said with so much force that she immediately stopped what she was doing and went over to him. "W-what do you...?" She broke off when his eyes clashed with hers. His eyes weren't their usual dark brown, but had darkened considerably to appear like onyx; the only light in them a reflection of the lamps above.

"I told you to keep an eye on me," he bit out, voice still polite yet lethal. "How can you perform your basic duties if you cannot adhere to that one simple task? More still you continue to serve on the right when it should be the left!" When she opened her mouth to speak he held up his hand for silence. "Bring me another drink—a double—and do not make the same mistake of making me wait again." When she continued to stare at him, paralyzed by the ferocity of his words he lifted his cane and smacked it down hard on the ground causing her to jump. Moving faster than lightening she made to brush past him, saw flames leap into his eyes and quickly went back to retrieve his empty glass.

The glass shattered as soon as she touched it. "S-sorry," she apologized, voice trembling as she used her napkin to wipe all the broken glass onto her tray. "Sorry."

"Hey, Kate I'll have my—goodness!" Donovan gasped, stumbling back slightly when Kate crashed into him on her sprint to the bar. "What on earth happened to her? Poor girl looks scared half to death!"

"Appropriately so," James breathed before taking a long drag of his cigarette.

Shaking his head at Kates rattled state Donovan turned back around. Coming 'round the front of James table, he found the young man once more dressed richly in another suit with not a hair out of place. "Hello James," Donovan greeted warmly, completely oblivious or quite possibly ignorant of James' foul mood. "Would it be alright if I join you tonight?"

"Be my guest," he answered, motioning to the empty chair beside him with a wave of his hand.

Settling comfortably in his seat Donovan turned his attention to James. "Nice to see you back. You must like the music."

Blinking James eyes flickered over to the band. They weren't terrible, however, they weren't exceptional either. "It's fitting."

Kate, remembering James not so subtle reprimand, appropriately severed both men on the left. "Well, that's new," Donovan remarked as she left.

The difference was like night and day. The first night James had been quite the chatterbox and lively. Now he was silent. Stealing glances at him from the corner of his eyes Donovan wondered if everything was alright. He didn't look angry or even the slightest bit perturbed, in fact, he was simply still. So still he could have passed for a figurine. It was unnerving to the old man. "Everything alright son?"

"Yes, of course."

The stage curtain fluttered and dark eyes flew to it. Donovan saw it. Saw that brief light go on in their depths before it was properly extinguished. "Were you hoping to see Rosa?"

At that, James took a sip of his drink. The simple reminder of his blunder made him silently vow to massacre everyone if her sporadic visits were mentioned again.

"Had you asked I would have told you..."

 _Alright, maybe not everyone in this place deserved to die_. Turning his attention to him, he asked, "Told me what?"

"That she doesn't perform regularly." The threat was back on. "That last show," he went on to say, "It was more of a gift."

"What do you mean?" James inquired further, putting out his cigarette as his interest was caught.

"Well..."

Time slowed down and sped up as James found himself sitting with one leg crossed over the other, hand under his chin, listening with rapt fascination to Donovan's tale. Isabelle, Rosaline's mother, had come to Los Angeles with nothing. After becoming a waitress, she worked at the club for years until one day the owner caught her singing. She had a knack for mixing the classics with her native songs. Though she didn't become Hollywood's next starlet she had gained a small following. In that following was the man who would become Rosaline's father, Eduardo Cortez.

"He was a good man. Did everything for his family."

"So what happened to him?" James inquired next.

Donovan went on to tell him that the old owner like to cut corners. Didn't matter what it was: watered down drinks, broken equipment, or a quick fix to the building, he did it all. One night when Isabelle was performing they heard a noise. It was subtle at first, but then it grew. A creak-creak-creaking. Before they knew it the floor began to buckle.

It was a domino effect. The floor buckled putting added pressure on old beams and braces until it all came down. Everyone rushed out into the street.

Through the midst of the rubble, Isabelle shouted for Eduardo. The floor had opened up right where he was standing, the poor man didn't have a chance.

"For years, Isabelle wouldn't come to the club. Victor, the host, he used to sneak in when he was a kid. When he got older he bought the property at the same time Rosaline graduated from college." A grin came to his face then. "Everyone thought that because their music was in her blood Rosa would be a performer like her mother, but she didn't go that route. She's an engineer."

Dazzling light filtered through James' eyes. _An engineer._ Oh, if only engineers in his time had looked like her, he would have killed more of them.

"She got herself a job as an inspector and together they fixed the club. Fixed it right. Indie artists came into town and put our little place back on the map! And that show last week, it was the anniversary of the remodel which is why Rosa came to sing."

"How do you know all of this?"

"I've been coming here for years. Matter of fact, it was through Isabelle that I met my wife. The two of 'em are practically sisters, why Rosa even calls Evette tia and me her tio!"

That was it. Donovan was his foot in the door. And damn it all if he wasn't going to kick it wide open.

"Well, that was an excellent tale," James exclaimed suddenly. "Such callousness by the owner and the heightened despair wrought from the death of a lover. I thoroughly enjoyed that!" Turning around, he eyed the crowd quickly spotting Kate. "Kate! Another round of drinks please, thank you."

"Oh, I couldn't," Donovan told him, waving his hands for added emphasis. "I have a two drink maximum."

When Kate approached the table James removed the drinks himself placing one in front of Donovan. "This is a celebration, Don! Good stories and conversation shared between men in their prime," he told him earning a laugh. "Now drink up. One more won't hurt."

Like all temptation, his offer was sweet. So Donovan took the drink in good cheer. It was to be the first of several.

...

White smoke filtered around him. Resting back in his chair James took Donovan in with an amused grin. The man was smashed. Thoroughly so. Despite his incessant need to chatter, he was not an obnoxious drunk or even belligerent, but a rare drunk who still had most of his faculties.

"Ah, ah, ah," James said, removing the whiskey bottle from his hands. "You've had plenty, old boy."

Resting his elbows on the table, Donovan looked at him with tired bloodshot eyes. "Y-you remind me of Gary Clark," he confessed. "It's the way you t-talk."

Smiling wide James shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know him."

"The Misfits!" Donovan told him, voice implying that James was dense to not know the actor. "Boom Town. Gone with the... Gone with the..."

"The wind," he corrected. "Gone with the Wind and you mean Clark Gable, not Gary Clark."

Rubbing his hand at his whiskered chin, Donovan nodded his head. _That name did sound better._ "Yeah," he murmured. "You might be right."

Judging that Donovan was now more pliable and thus likely to give all the information of Rosaline that he required, he made his move. "So tell me..."

"How long you been married?"

Caught off guard by the comment James stared at the man in shock. So surprised was he that he looked over his shoulder wondering if the man was so far gone as to see things that weren't there. "I'm afraid I..." James stopped mid-sentence when Donovan's eyes flickered down to his hand.

The thin gold band glittered in the light. Looking at the ring on his finger James saw her. Images of his wife flashed so fast in his mind that he couldn't stop them. It wasn't a marriage formed out of love, but camaraderie. To put it plainly, two dark souls had found one another and joined in marriage their union, not promising love, good cheer, and fidelity but a life of debauchery, loyalty, and most importantly secrecy.

"I've worn this ring for so long that sometimes I forget it's even on my finger," he spoke honestly, voice barely above a whisper.

"Did she die?"

The softly spoken inquiry broke him out of his trance. Snapping his gaze off the ring, James stared into sky blue eyes. "Y-yes," he answered, needing to cough to clear his voice as it cracked. "Yes," he repeated more firmly. "She did die."

Something strange happened. He opened up, sharing a part of himself he never talked about. "My wife—her name was Elizabeth. She was... She was beautiful," he told him, a faraway look coming into his eyes. "Had a way about her that I had never seen, like she was above the crowd—above everyone. That's how she got me; looked me over and walked right on by," he reminisced with a smile. "I courted her. Married her shortly after and we were happy. But then..." James lost his smile. "...She became ill. A _virus_. No one knew what it was or where it came from and they still don't..."

"Here, take this."

James stared down at the crumpled napkin in Donovan's hand, not understanding. He opened his mouth to ask what it was for but then he felt something trail down his cheek. His cane clattered to go ground as his hand flew up to his face. Pulling back his hand, he saw his fingers glisten. _What is this?_

"F-forgive me. I don't know what's come over me."

It was a sad sight indeed. Donovan stared at James, watched as he wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief. He had started crying from the very beginning, only Donovan thought he was aware of it. Obviously, he was not.

"I'm sorry," Donovan apologized, blue eyes sorrowful. "I didn't mean to bring it up, kid. Really. I'm sorry."

James waved his apology away with is hand. "It's fine. It's not your fault really," he said, forcing a smile. "It's good to remember. It helps." Pausing James folded his handkerchief, his eyes downcast. "It was just nice to forget is all," he continued, voice lowering to a smooth gentle whisper. "To see someone who could finally move me for once."

"Rosa?"

James nodded his head.

Maybe it was because James looked so damned sad and sounded so sincere or maybe it was because Donovan himself was just good and drunk, but whatever the reason he decided to give the boy a chance. "Don't beat yourself up. I k-know Rosa. I can tell you where she likes to spend her free time."

"Really?" James asked, that light creeping back into his eyes. "I mean I don't want to put you out of your way or make you fall out of favor with her."

"Son I can tell you're a good man. I know you are. And there's no doubt that you loved your wife, but the way you looked at Rosa... That was the same way I looked at my wife when I saw her for the first time," he told him slightly slurring his words, the liquor in full effect. "Now there's a place in..."

As Donovan proceeded to tell him about an upcoming event, James hid his grin from behind his handkerchief. How easy it was to play on soft hearts. It only took a few tears and then they were yours.


	3. Oak Valley & Baron Hill

**Author's Note:** Warning, this chapter has 7,176 words. Pace yourself.

 _Ngome055:_ Of course James played Donovan! I don't know if you've read my earlier/ongoing work _A Siren's Call,_ but I love my villains as they are and don't soften them up. At least not that early on. Just be aware that he is dark and sinister, that he does have a sense of entitlement which is explained in this chapter and will do what he needs to get what he wants. Now, that doesn't mean he will stay that way or that things couldn't change further down the road ;) Also thank you for the comment about my writing style. It is most appreciated!

 _PorcelainPuppetLady:_ As the series progresses I will always include lines or details in the story, so you can always expect to be shown a treat or stumble upon an Easter egg. Also, the Scarecrow fic is in progress! It's going to be a one-shot as I take requests on my blog, but considering the feedback I may make it a full-fledged story.

 _VampWolf92:_ Thank you for your comment. I'm glad you find it interesting. The further I go, the more I hope the story captivates you.

* * *

 **Baron Hill & Oak Valley**

"No, I saw the paperwork and the blueprints John, none of it is up to code." Making her way down the block Rosaline continued to argue on the phone with John Feldman, owner of a new Hollywood high-rise. "That's not my concern," she told him becoming agitated. "Look, I understand that you have a vision, that you want the hotel to look nice, but you fail to understand the severity of the situation. You are not building from scratch; you want an old warehouse made into apartments which will take time, money, and the proper material and structure."

Rosaline pulled the phone away from her ear when he started shouting.

"Now I've paid a substantial amount of money for this property, Rosaline. I have a deadline to meet and everything is being held up because of you. Just sign off on the fucking permits so I can get on with my life!"

As a Consulting Engineer, it was her job to perform inspections and she did so thoroughly. It was no secret that she was every architect's and owner's worst nightmare. She didn't slack, didn't place nice, and certainly didn't cut corners to appease anyone.

"Mr. Feldman, I am an engineer. I will not forsake my skill or downplay my intelligence to satisfy your wants. If you're angry be angry at your whistleblower or more deservedly yourself. But know this, your building will not be greenlighted until it passes inspection, **my inspection.** If those complexes go up I will cite you and report all involved and see to it personally that you are fined an amount that equates to your ignorance."

"You bitch! If you so much as..."

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Feldman," she said interrupting him. "Be sure to correct everything I've noted on the forms and have a good day." Ending the call Rosaline turned off her cell phone and stuffed it into her pocket. "Jackass," she muttered. While these arguments came with the territory of her job she was not going to let it ruin her mood or her day off. Determined to have a good time she shook it off, going on her way.

Maybe it was the fact that she was a cool Southern Californian or had an old soul with music flowing through her veins, maybe it was just an innate charm. Whatever it was, there was something about her that caused others to take notice. Walking down the street dressed in a white punk-rock shirt and black fitted slacks, her red wingtips clicked along the sidewalk, hips swaying naturally with her confident stride. Chic with an edge. All on her own, she looked like a force to be reckoned with; a challenge that begged to be tried. That's what James saw in her that night at the club. A challenge. A beautiful, never before won, challenge.

"Lookin' good, ma." A stranger called as she passed.

Far from being closed off Rosaline was just smart; followed her instincts. Unlike most people who ignore those red flags, those warnings in their minds she listened to hers and they grew stronger. This man, this young brotha with a twinkle in his eye and a grin, he wasn't anywhere near vicious.

Turning midnight eyes to the man she gave him a slow smile. "You don't look so bad yourself."

"Girl's feelin' you, Dawg!" His friends cheered in unison. "That's my boy, that's my boy!"

Laughing at their antics, Rosaline shook her head and continued on her way.

Tours were given to view the infamous Baron Hill Mansion and Oak Valley a few times out of the year. While the original structure was built in 1618 it was reconstructed in 1778 by architect Samuel Wyatt in the Palladium style. Old, whimsical, with an abandoned chapel on the property, it was the inspiration for many films, books, horror nights, several romances due to Oak Valley's lush grounds, and one of Rosaline's personal favorite places to visit.

Coming around the corner, she spied a familiar face and pulling the strap of her black satchel higher up her shoulder increased her pace, giddy with excitement.

"See, you're back for another tour, Rosa," Donovan called, eyeing her from above his clipboard with a knowing smile. As a history professor, he too had a fondness for historic buildings and volunteered year after year as the lead tour guide. And while Oak Valley was open to the public that day, tours of the mansion were private making possible an encounter for James.

"Of course, I'm back, tio; it's one of my favorite places."

Pushing through the crowd, she climbed up the steps of the mansion and pulled him into a hug placing a kiss on his cheek. "It's a big turnout," she stated as she eyed the large crowd.

"Of course! Everyone wants to see Oak Valley. But this should be good news for you seeing as the mansion has always been your favorite." At that Rosaline gave him a knowing grin. Fewer people in the mansion meant better pictures for her.

"Tio, when did you get over your chest cold?" She asked suddenly. That had been the cause of all his rasping.

"Oh, you know," he began, his natural voice a smooth tenor, "just your usual medicine." _Along with a bottle of whiskey_.

Nodding her head, she rubbed his shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better." Motioning to the crowd, she asked, "Is everyone here or are you still waiting?"

As Donovan handed her a visitor badge he quickly scanned the pedestrians on the street. He had given James fair warning; given the time and the date to show, but so far there was no sign of him. Ruffling his salt and pepper hair, he withheld a sigh. _Seems you lost your chance kid._

"There's a few more," he answered honestly, looking at the names on his list. "Why don't you go on ahead," he told her. "You've seen it before and I know you want to take a few pictures before we start."

Squealing she pulled him into a bear hug. "Thank you!" Pulling away, she removed her camera from her bag stating, "When it's over dinner will be on me tio. I'll take you to that Korean BBQ place you love." Placing another kiss on his cheek she darted inside.

Immediately the immense splendor took her breath away. The mansion was one of her favorite locations as she liked all the finer details such as the gold etching, elaborate furnishings, and the mural painted ceilings. It was absolutely stunning.

Stepping further into the foyer, she eyed the large crystal chandelier and moving toward the wall, ran her fingertips along the gold etched walls.

"No touching."

Snapping her hand back, she gave a small smile to the security guard. "Sorry, Walt."

Walter Jackson was the spitting image and personality of actor Samuel L. Jackson. And as ornery as he could be he had a heart of gold. You just had to look deep to find it.

"Uh-huh, sorry my ass," he said, sitting from behind his desk in the foyer. "What's the matter with you, Rosa? Touching things around here like they don't have cameras. And where is your badge?" Pausing in her footsteps, she held up her visitor tour badge. "I can't see that from here!"

Letting the badge slip back against her, she put her hand on her hip and arched a brow. "Is that because you're losing your sight or are you trying to do your job and watch novellas at the same time?"

Pursing his lips, he eyed her a split second before looking back at his tiny television set on his desk. "That's not funny," he snapped when she started laughing her way to the elevator. "It's your Uncle that got me watching the damn things," he mumbled. "Don't even get me started on this foolishness. Got me watching shows in languages I don't understand and feelin' things." Rolling her eyes, she couldn't help to smile. That was Walt for you.

Spying a large crowd coming down the stairs, she quickly made her way to the elevator, an add-on from the early 90's. When the doors opened, she stepped inside. Just as she moved to push the button for the second floor Walter's voice rang out.

"Hey! Don't be running in this damn place!"

"Hold the elevator!"

Without hesitation, Rosaline's hand shot out. Pressing against the door, she only had to wait a moment before a man darted inside, moving so fast he was nothing more than a blur.

Though the elevator doors closed Rosaline could still hear Walt's muttered cursing. "I am getting too damn old to be chasing after a Clark Gable..."

"What floor?" She asked, fingers poised above the number pad. There were only three levels, but still she had to ask.

"The second."

The button was pressed and a shiver ran down her spine. Staring at the number pad, she fought off that darkened sense of foreboding that crept up on her. It wasn't her usual red flag warning, this was like a gunshot in her mind.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she gripped the camera in her hands and stared at the elevator doors. As she did so a light hit her eyes. Blinking confused, she stared at the arc of light displayed upon the door. _What the hell is that?_

Glancing behind her, her breath hitched in her throat. It was him, the man from the club. Gone was the fine suit, but still in place was attire that by today's standards business casual. With the jacket gone she saw perfectly his broad shoulders and lean, muscular frame made evident by his pale blue button-down, and his narrow waistline fully emphasized by his navy blue suspenders and tan trousers that were fitted to a T, not to mention his tucked brown, blue-gold damask ascot that brought it all together for an added touch of finery.

Had she not been so taken back, she would have admired his sense of style, but instead, she asked, "What are you doing here?" The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

James looked up, his dark brown eyes clashing with her own. He had the audacity to look surprised. "I'm sorry, but I don't recall-" He broke off. "Miss Cortez?" He asked uncertainly. "Why it is you!"

Pushing away from the wall, he straightened from his relaxed posture. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise." Snapping his pocket watch shut, the cause of her earlier distraction, he tucked it away into his pocket. "I had planned to see you at the club," he told her, eyes gleaming as he remembered her spurn, "but it appears fate has stepped in for me."

Rosaline stared at him, unsure of what to make of this encounter. While he possessed a badge, a clear sign that he had booked this tour before knowing her, something didn't feel right. But for the life of her, she didn't know what it was.

As the elevator continued to rise, she said, "It was, James, right? James March?"

Smiling wide, he gave her a quick nod. "Correct."

When the elevator dinged Rosaline gave him a small smile. "Well, it was nice to see you again, James. Enjoy your tour." Before he could even think to stall her, to coax her to join him on the private tour, she strode out of the elevator.

It is said today that the generation of this time was born with a sense of entitlement. This is false. It was the men and women of his time, that old-money new-money mentality that made them all—anyone who had wealth—believe they were a cut above the company. They are the true founders of that mindset and James was no different. His wealth and connections in life gave him prestige, power, and he reveled in it. Even dead as he was Miss Evers catered to his every whim, Liz Taylor as well. It had been years—decades—since he was denied, scoffed at or turned down, and it would be an understatement to say that he didn't know what to make of it.

Staring at the empty space in the elevator, James felt a rush go through him. While most people could look at him and see a good, vibrant young men, a rare few saw the darkness. It was then that he knew she was one of those select few. Now mind you it was not a supernatural thing about her, just an added sense of awareness and a bit of a game changer. A pleasant one.

"Damn it all to hell, this is a real challenge!"

Walking out of the elevator, he could picture her future; her running down the halls of his hotel as he stalked after her, eyes glued to her curved backside, knife in hand. Shuddering with pleasure James paced himself.

"You need to last longer than this if you want to heighten the feeling James."

More than just a simple study this was to be an art form. If he wanted her the way he did, for that dark purpose, then he would need to woo her good and proper. He needed to make the courtship last for as long as possible in order to heighten the pleasure he would receive from the kill.

Pausing in the middle of an expansive corridor, he gazed in her direction.

"Alright my dear," he began, hearing the sound of her wingtips echoing down the corridor toward him. "If you want to put up a wall, please do. It will be my pleasure to knock it down and seal you back in it." Grinning like the devil, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingering the small blade he kept there and set off in her direction.

 **...**

It was easy for him to become a shadow. Truth be told, it was much like the phrase, out of sight, out of mind. The further she moved away from his presence, his visible presence, the more comfortable she became. Of course, there were those first few glances over her shoulder as she felt the heaviness of his spirit, but when nothing happened she dismissed it. So he crept closer.

A flash of light went off as she took another picture.

Zooming in she took in another shot of an angelic statue, tilting herself at just the right angle so that half its figure was shrouded in darkness. Pulling the camera back, she studied the picture a moment before taking another.

"Goodness," she gasped seconds later when a chill swept over her.

Glancing about the room, or the princess suite as it was called for its pink, gold, and white palette and feminine touches, she rested her gaze to the window. It was closed. Brow furrowed, she stepped closer to the window and extended her hand. When the wind blew again, she could feel the draft. _Keep it together, Rosa._ Shaking her head over her small fear she returned her attention back to her camera.

Peering further over her shoulder James eyed the series of photos she had taken.

Believe it or not, she had a good eye. Rather than taking the most mundane of shots she took some that were captivating: the reflection of the chandelier from off the walls, the gleam of gold fixtures, off angled profiles of a dated dolls and statues. In all her photos was a balance of darkness and light. It made him wonder if she had a possible predilection for anomalous things.

Taking his eyes off the screen James leaned further into her. Eyeing a lock of her wavy hair, he gently ran his finger along her silken tresses. A smile came to his face when she scratched at her hair, running her fingers through it. _Hmm... That was different_ , he mused. As daring as always, he came in closer and closing his eyes breathed her in.

His surprised gasp had her reaching for her neck.

It was more than her lingering fright, it was... He inhaled once more, pupils dilating. _How could I have missed that?_

Scents like taste did not come to the dead easily. It was mental, a trick of the mind. If you had been dead for long enough your mind could make you remember how certain things tasted, smelled. Though it always came to one with a memory of what the forgotten scent or taste reminded them of, as they could never truly smell it.

This was no memory.

This was as an actual fragrance, something he could breathe in and smell and the scent was... roses. Rosaline smelled like a bouquet of freshly cut roses with a hint of spring rain. _Remarkable._ Unable to help himself, he leaned into her.

Gripping her neck, Rosaline flew up from her spot against the window seat, nearly dropping her camera.

Wildly her eyes darted about the room, her heart pounding. It felt like someone had breathed on her neck like she felt lips on her skin, but that was impossible. Massaging the sensitive spot on her neck she wasted no time trying to decide if it was a draft or phantom and left.

"I should have stayed with the damn tour," she muttered to herself as she exited the parlor room and moved out into another expansive hallway. "Better yet, I shouldn't have watched _Psycho_ and _The Shining_ back to back." Suspense thrillers were her weakness even though they kept her on edge. Moving faster the heels of her shoes clicked on the marble floors; that spot along the slender column of her neck burning still.

With a start, she whirled around.

There it was again, that heavy presence. Midnight eyes ran along the columns, walls, and open entryways. Before she could dismiss the feeling and flee from her location she saw a shadowy figure in the distance.

Rosaline's breath hitched in her throat, the hairs on her arm standing up as she stared at the ghostly being. When the figure took a step forward seeming to disappear from sight she took two steps back, nearly tripping over her own two feet. She couldn't speak, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but run her frantic gaze over the space around her. _W-what was that?!_ Her mind screamed. Her mind worked frantically to try to come up with a possible solution to what she had seen, but no answer was found.

Suddenly it felt like a hundred eyes were on her person. Unseen eyes were watching her, grazing across her flesh, making her skin crawl and her stomach flip. Her heartbeat picked up and pounded like drums in her ears. Licking her lips nervously, she took another step backward and tripped along the first step of a grand staircase.

Rosaline cried out, her arms flailing in the air around her. "Aaahhhh!"

Without warning, someone grabbed her and pulled her to safety.

Precious air was taken from her when her front collided into the well-muscled chest of her savior. Closing her eyes, she leaned into the person trying her best to control her breathing. It wasn't just a trip. It felt like she had been pushed; like someone had slowly been backing her toward the staircase just so she could... Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she took in a deep breath and exhaled shakily.

Seeming to try to calm her the unknown person wound an arm around her waist, the other snaking along her back as his hand cradled the back of her skull, pulling her deeper into his hold. For the life of her, she didn't know why the action was so soothing but it was. In no time at all breathing came naturally as she inhaled the man's cologne, an odd but pleasant scent of tobacco and sandalwood.

"T-thank you," she whispered against his chest. "Thank you so much."

James smiled against her hair.

Holding her more tightly he inhaled that forgotten scent of roses and murmured, "Your heart's beating like a hummingbird."

His smooth baritone pierced her ears and she inhaled sharply.

Pulling back from his arms she looked into the eyes of the man who saved her. James peered down at her with a rare light in his eyes. Unable to hold back the hand that cradled her skull, it moved, his fingertips trailing along the surface of her silken tresses to cup her cheek.

"Are you alright, Miss Cortez?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow possessing enough strength to linger in her mind, to echo. "That would have been a most unfortunate accident. Good thing I was here to be of assistance."

Before she could think to push him away, he gripped her arms and backing away, guided her from the steps that were nearly her demise. "There," he told her, stopping when they were a safe distance away. "Now you're safe." Taking in her wide eyes and flushed face, he gave her a soft smile. "Enjoy the rest of your tour, Miss."

Gaping at him Rosaline's eyes fell to his broad back, watching as he walked away from her.

Perhaps she had misjudged him. Most certainly she did. That dark feeling it couldn't have come from him, especially if he saved her. Quickly her mind ran back to her earlier rudeness toward him in the elevator. There was no excuse. Swallowing hard, she mentally cursed herself and her rudeness and started after him.

"Wait!" She called. "James, please wait!"

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, James turned around giving her his full attention. Damn it all if she wasn't a sight to behold running after him like that. "Yes, Miss Cortez?" He inquired when he pulled himself together. "Are you in need of further assistance?"

Faltering in her footsteps, she nervously tucked locks of her hair behind her ear. "N-no. I just wanted to thank you again." Looking into his eyes, she continued. "Thank you, James."

"No doubt you pegged me a scoundrel," he told her, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "So I must ask, is this a sincere apology or are you merely thankful and taken back that it was me who saved you and thus trying to make right your previous scorn?"

Rosaline gaped at him. The damn man had called her out. Rightfully so. Now that he had she didn't know what to make of it, how to proceed.

Softening his remark he gave her a rueful smile. "It's quite alright, Miss Cortez, you don't need to apologize profusely. I must admit that I was a bit brash when I approached you first and for that I must take the blame, not you." Placing his hand over his heart, he gave a slight bow. "So, forgive me and pardon my intrusion. Enjoy your tour."

As he descended the steps he could feel her curiosity growing and he smirked. This game had been played many times before. He knew now it was only a matter of time before she berated herself and came to apologize once more. Only a matter of time before she pursued him. Or so he thought.

In no time at all James found himself sitting on a bench in the lush gardens surrounded by lavender, chrysanthemums, and lilies, glaring at the angelic face of the tiered water fountain. _Modern women_ , his mind seethed. _There was just no peg that they fit into._

While he had called her out for her rudeness and her need to apologize more formally, he simply had no way of knowing she was not the type of person to chase after someone in order to seek an absolute form of forgiveness.

So he sat there debating whether or not she worth the trouble. Quickly he concluded that she was. After all, she was the reason for his newfound plight and more importantly, his conundrum.

The true reason for his lingering presence on that bench was to contemplate how he could scent her. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, he couldn't wrap his mind around how it was possible.

After his death, it was months before he realized he was stuck in a wheel, an endless cycle of repetition, which took hard time to break. Soon after it was trial and error; a stubborn determination that made him call into memory forgotten scents, tastes, and feelings. How had she inspired to bring one he never cared for, roses, and how could she inspire a memory with the new scent, a new desire? James didn't know.

Rubbing at his brow, he reclined back further into the bench crossing one leg over the other.

A chorus of giggles caught his ear. Turning his head, he eyed a trio of young women. They were so bold as to wink, to bite their lips and eye him up and down with a wantonness he never preferred in a woman. Don't get me wrong, he loved a woman who was wild and uninhibited, but when it was done properly. He liked long, lingering stares from across the room, coy silences, a flash of bare skin from a parted skirt, and plenty of sexual innuendos.

"Are you here alone?" One of the girls finally asked. She was a tall brunette and by far the boldest of the three.

"Do you see anyone here with me?" James returned, taking another puff of his cigarette.

"No," she answered.

"I believe you have the answer to your question, now don't you." It was said in the most polite of tones, but there was an underlining bite to it, a warning. It was his subtle way of telling her that he was bored, uninterested.

She didn't pick up on his subtlety. "Well, we're going to Oak Valley now. You're welcome to join us," she purred.

This was exactly why he had pushed himself to pursue a kill worthwhile. Too many made his job of murder so damned easy. "What is your name girl?"

"Jessica."

"Well, Jessica," he began, tapping his ashes out onto the ground. "While you and your companions are no doubt lovely, in my eyes you are no more than children. As a man, I prefer the company of women, not little girls. So run along, child. Run along and tend to your friends, your playmates, for you are wasting your time here with me."

The girl was so dumbfounded by his remark that she didn't know what to make of it. In truth, she began sputtering. "W-why y-you..." she broke off when her friend grabbed her arm, tugging her away. "Let's just go. He's not worth it. Besides, he looks like a creep!"

"Children," he muttered, turning his attention back to the fountain. "How I would love to kill them all."

Just as he made to take another puff from his cigarette movement was detected from the corner of his eye. Turning his head, his eyes widened, lips parting at the sight before him.

In the distance, he saw Rosaline walking along the opposite side of the immense pool and fountain. At that moment, she looked every bit a vision. Sunlight reflected off the water and shined upon her face bringing a crimson hue to her cheeks and making her sun-kissed skin glow. Sitting up straighter, James took her in, eyes roaming over her person and loving everything he saw from the plains of her face, the curves of her body, to her long, graceful and confident strides.

A feeling came. It was the same feeling, that same electric shock he felt when he first saw Elizabeth, only this was stronger. Much, much stronger. More importantly, Elizabeth hadn't felt that shock, just a keen interest. Rosaline, on the other hand, did feel it.

Their eyes clashed.

Eyes locked into a stare Rosaline stared deep into his eyes as she walked down the pathway. It was like being in the arms of a lover, yet feeling the searing heat of a thousand suns on her body and earth's gravitational pull on her heart, making it soar higher than ever before. As she moved his eyes followed her, head turning ever so slightly with her footsteps. The look caused flames to dance across her skin and her lips to part, eyes burning with intensity. Lurking within his dark-eyed gaze was stark possession and raw desire, and something else she couldn't decipher. Try as she might she couldn't look away, nor could she fight the delightful sensations that his stare instilled within her. There wasn't even a warning going through her mind or a feel of his malevolent nature, just—she stumbled.

"Ow! Oh my, God, I'm so... Sorry." A statue. She had just run into and apologize to a cherub statue.

"Ha-ha, ha-ha!"

Blinking her gaze went from the statue to James. He had his head thrown back and was laughing heartily at her blunder. A fierce blush broke out on her cheeks and she looked away, tucking her hair behind her hair all the while wishing the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

"Are you alright?" James called from his position on the bench.

Rosaline didn't even try to play off her blooper. "I'm fine," she answered, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

"I know you're fine. I can look at you and see that you are _quite_ fine," he told her huskily. "However, my previous inquiry still stands, so are you alright?"

No one spoke like that. It would be a lie to say it wasn't at the very least stimulating or desirable.

Clearing her throat, she spoke up. "I'm fine—alright. I'm good."

James nodded his head. All along his skin, he could still feel the charge of their connection and he wasn't going to let her slip away from it.

Taking matters into his own hands, James pointed at the mansion. "It's a magnificent structure," he stated honestly. "Though for the life of me, I can't fathom why each room is dedicated to a different era."

"Because of the movies."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you," he lied. "Allow me to come to you." Rising to his feet, he put out his cigarette and quickly strode over to her. "As you were saying," he finished when stood before her.

"A-a lot of movies are made here," she told him, eyes glued to his own. "To attract more guests, they leave the corresponding rooms as is."

"Ah!" He exclaimed. "Now that makes sense. While the rest are fine that 20's themed room is definitely..."

"Lacking?" She interrupted.

James nodded his head in agreement. "It is. Very much so."

"I feel the same way," she confessed walking past him.

Following her, they fell into step, walking side by side along the garden pathways, inadvertently taking the path that led to Oak Valley.

"Those stained glass windows," he went on to say about the room, "I had seen how they were made once. It's extraordinary. A slight change in temperature or added pressure and the whole image is ruined. Though striking no doubt, the design they used wasn't around in the 20's nor those expensive colors and, therefore, doesn't sit well with the building—excuse me, I mean the theme."

"It was gifted."

Taking his eyes off the path before them, he looked at her. "I'm sorry?"

"The stained-glass was added in early 2000 by a local artist," she told him. "The owner thought it would be a nice addition, that it would draw more people to come see it."

"Did it?" He asked, genuinely curious. "Did it draw a large following?"

Rosaline shook her head. "Nope!"

"Ha-ha, I believe it," he remarked with a smirk. "If I'm to be frank allow me to say that those windows are ghastly, along with those insidious light fixtures; why they made the place look like a damn zoo!" He said making her laugh. "The owners would have done well if they would have gone with..."

"An authentic tiffany palette or a mural of a porte-cochère?" She offered as she interrupted him.

That gave him pause. "Yes," he agreed seconds later, a sincere smile forming on his lips. "Yes, that would have been a much better fit." Realizing he was staring at her like a smitten schoolboy, he quickly asked, "I'm sorry but do you like design and architecture?"

How quickly fear and a warning could be pushed aside when one found common ground.

"I do. I love it," she admitted with a sheepish grin. "In college, I minored in architectural drafting while studying to be an engineer. I can't explain it, but it's the..."

"The lines?" he offered now. "The curvature and the sleekness, how they..." He went on and on, not to ensnare or trap her, but because he truly had words to say on the subject. Because he liked it. More so because he wanted the conversation; he wanted to know all about this woman and how after decades, he could smell roses and feel a shock.

In no time at all, she found herself relaxing more and more in his presence. It was the way he talked, moved, and carried himself. How even though he spoke to her, he would give a polite, 'hello' to those who passed. Not only did they share a mutual love of architecture, but loved art, culture, travel, and music as well. Furthermore, he could make her laugh.

"...and so I said to the boy, 'If you try to hustle me for an old newspaper one more time, I will take that paper and shove-'" He broke off. "Well," he went on to say, rubbing at his jaw, "I don't believe that part is to be said in the company of a lady."

Arching a dark brow, she nodded her head. "I understand," she told him clasping her hands behind her back. "So were you going to hit him with the paper or shove it up his ass?"

James' shoulders shook as he tried to control his laughter. "Ha-ha! The latter. Most definitely the latter, only I wasn't going to stop at one newspaper!"

"Hahaha!"

Staring at her as did he had to admit something; he loved the sound of her laugh. It wasn't soft but loud, pleasing and full of life, possessing the power to make him smile and laugh harder still.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she gave him a grin. "So where are you from, James?" She asked next, guiding them, further along, the dirt path and past couples and photographers.

"I was born in New York," he told her. "Unlike you, I did not have a knack for design, a love for architecture, not yet. So I studied business like my father before me and I did well. Very well. Shortly after that, I traveled and made my home here in California." He didn't dare tell her that he owned the Hotel Cortez knowing that his background was just a click away.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Just a few years," he replied honestly, chuckling darkly at the truth of it all.

Stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye, she couldn't believe how she had misjudged him. Despite his highborn air, he had a swagger about him, a relaxed calm even though he was polished to a shine, and a manner of speaking that drew her out of herself. _I guess he's not so bad after all._

As the sound of voices grew around them, they came around the last bend of the garden and saw Oak Valley.

James brows rose appraisingly and Rosaline sighed. It was remarkable. Oak Valley was famed for having continuous paths lined with oak trees that crisscrossed, their branches creating a canopy of sorts. Staring down at all its natural splendor Rosaline could easily see how it became known as Lover's Row.

"Excuse us," an elderly couple murmured as they stepped past.

James saw the sparkle come into her eye as well as the upturned corners of her lips when she saw the besotted pair. Coming closer to her side, he offered her his hand. "Miss Cortez, it would be a pleasure if you would take my hand and join me on this fine stroll which is to be the conclusion of our tour."

There was a brief hesitation. However, when the sunlight hit his face and revealed that delectably rich brown hue of his eyes, she threw caution to the wind.

When she placed her hand in his James kissed the back of it. "Thank you," he whispered against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine as he kissed it once more. Rising to his full height, he expertly tucked her hand inside his arm and led her down the pathway to join the other blossoming couples.

"Where are you from?" She asked in disbelief, a look of wonder in her eyes.

He knew the place of his birth was not what she was asking for, but that she was smitten by his conduct and so he said, "I am from a time where manners were once everything. Where one didn't gossip outright but whispered, didn't stare yet gave coy smiles, and when a man was interested in a woman," he said, pausing to look at her, "he gave her his arm and took her for a stroll in the park." With those few words, he made his intentions known and knocked graciously at the door of her heart.

Far from a walk or a leisurely stroll, they appeared to waltz on that earthen path. Light on his feet James would place his hand on her lower back and guide her around couples, seeming to dance them in and out of the crowd. She too would follow his steps, gripping his hand tighter, twisting and turning about the people as they navigated, swayed, their way to the end. With every twirl of their bodies, she brought that scent of roses to him, and with every joke from himself, he was rewarded once more with the sound of her laughter.

With his hand still on the small of her back, he listened to her, watching her attentively, liking the way the sunlight hit her golden skin and revealed the natural highlights of her hair. Though he wanted to he took no liberties, made no demands, and just... _listened_. It was then that he had to wonder, who was ensnaring who?

"Like I was saying, I-" Rosaline came to an abrupt halt, her voice lost.

Never before had she seen such a look in someone's eyes, such possessiveness intermingled with wonder. That look took her breath away and made a crimson hue spread across her cheeks once more. "Why are you looking at me like that?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"How am I looking at you?"

 _Like you own me,_ she wanted to say. _Like you know something I don't; that you'll never let me go._ Opening her mouth to speak, she answered, "Like you..."

"Rosa!"

Snapping their gaze toward the sound they saw Donovan making their way toward them. He was grinning madly of course. As Rosaline fixed her uncle with a smile, James gave him a knowing wink as if to say, 'Thanks, old boy.'

"Rosa, I tried to call you after I finished the tour, but you didn't pick up your phone," he told her, a sly smile spreading across his lips. "Now I see why."

"You finished the tour?" She blurted out. "What time is it?" She asked, scrambling for her phone.

"Nearly five o'clock."

At that she froze. In the mansion, she saw the time on her camera it was just after two when she took that last picture. How on earth could she have spent three hours in the company of James and not know it, not feel it?

"Is everything alright?" James inquired when he took in her stunned expression.

"Y-yeah. Everything is fine. I just... I just can't believe that much time went by."

Donovan had to admit that he had his doubts. That he saw the two of them in the mansion always going their separate ways and thought James had been shut down once more. But then he saw them making their way along the dirt path from the window and he knew that fate had taken its course. Why they were in such deep conversation that she didn't even notice when he walked by her earlier with his tour group in tow.

"Maybe your friend would like to join us for dinner?" He offered.

Rosaline blinked hard. Tilting her head to the side, she gave her uncle a look that clearly read, 'I can't believe you just did that.' James saw it and had to bite back his grin.

"What?" Donovan said carrying on as if the matter wasn't embarrassing to her. "I think it would be nice to..."

"Mr. Roberts?" One of the members of his tour group called. "Could you take a picture of me and my wife?"

When Donovan excused himself Rosaline turned apologetic eyes to James.

"I am so sorry," she began, wanting to fly away with the wind. "My uncle he..."

"Would you like to join me for coffee sometime?" James interrupted, his dark gaze rooted on her own. "There's a place called the Rise & Grind, located just a few blocks from the Hotel Cortez that I hear serves very good coffee. We could go and speak more about music, art, architecture... Or any topic you choose, which I am more than willing to discuss." He told her with a bashful smile.

A strange giddiness came over her. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, which James now knew was her nervous habit. "I would like that very much."

Taking down her number they promised to meet at the café next Sunday morning and with another kiss on the back of her hand, he departed from her. With the fading glow of the sunlight upon them and filtering through the trees, Rosaline stared at his broad back watching him go.

Something strange occurred then. The further he went away the more his form began to appear like a shadow and nearly translucent. Blinking profusely, she stared after him, her mind trying to comprehend what her eyes were seeing, believing it to be a trick of the light. When she focused on his person, waiting for him to blur as he did before she blinked. Opening her eyes, she found he had disappeared. Disappeared like a ghost from her sight.

* * *

 _ **Show me your badge!** Lol. I'm just teasing. You don't have to show me your badge, but do be so kind as to leave me a review._


	4. With Memory Comes Mystery

**Author's Note:** Wow. Thank you all so much for the follows, favorites, and reviews!

 _Ngome055:_ I'm glad you like James March and my OC. Their feature interactions are going to be really funny/sweet; they'll say and do things that will have them questioning the other's sanity. ;)

 _Anonymous:_ Hello and welcome! Thank you so much for your review. I really love the way James interacts with other characters on the show; he's so snarky! I find it utterly adorable. I do have a lot of "special things" planned for James and Rosaline, so keep your eyes peeled.

 _VampWolf92:_ Thannnnnk you. Lol.

 _Moonshadow427:_ Thank you so much for your comment. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter.

 _New Guest:_ I'm glad my dialogue is true to character; I often worry that it isn't at times, so this is nice to know. As for my errors, I apologize. I try to catch them all, but I have a tendency to add to the story as I correct, which in turn gives me more to review and I just pass right over my mistakes. I'll strive to do better.

* * *

 **With Memory Comes Mystery**

There are lessons to be learned in death, challenges to be had. The first is simple yet tricky, the dead must learn to escape from hell. Everyone's version of hell is different. It could be something as great as experiencing fire and brimstone, or so meek as a breakup, singing in a musical, or dissecting a frog.

It took Sally, five years before she stopped dancing, stumbling her way to that bright light from whence she fell. For Miss Evers, that wait was seven years. Seven long, hard years. Once she came to, it was like she didn't even break the cycle. For two months after she couldn't stop muttering, crying about her boy and clutching at the linens. As for our golden boy, James, it took him four short months.

The reason for his swift escape is due to the fact that the memory of his own personal hell is not buried deep, but at the forefront of his mind. Even as he looks at the fading sunlight in the distance he can see and relive that moment. With perfect clarity he could see tendrils of blonde hair moving, blowing gently with every labored breath he took, could feel the fabric of a yellow ruffled skirt, and smell dirt and _roses._

Until now the sight of the flower be it the real image or just a photograph, would cause that memory to surge forth. But now... Well, now there's a new memory and with it a clean, fresh scent of the once tainted bud. _How did it happen?_ He wondered to himself. _How could she-_

"I hope I'm not boring you."

Pulled from his thoughts, James turned his head, eyes clashing with green. "You've done many things to me, my dear, but boring me is not one of them."

Elizabeth, the Countess, as she liked to be called, studied James with a critical eye. Though he was her husband—on paper, not in heart—she knew him. Knew him well. Conversely, as much as she knew there was still a part of him that was kept out of her reach; a world she never truly cared to venture into. While she didn't love him she adored his doting presence, his jealousy, and flares of temper, they made her smile thus making their visits tolerable.

"Hmm," she responded, reaching for her wine glass. "Then should I take your silence to mean that my visit has reached its end?"

Clenching his jaw James' eyes flashed in warning. Their time together was always short, too short for his liking. Knowing that, she tempted him. She would always wear the most form-fitting gowns, entice him by pinning up her hair and baring her slender neck, and would dangle herself in front of him, silently baiting him by reminding him of what he had once had.

Staring at her now, he noted that he should have acknowledged that warning in his blood all those years ago. But he had stared into those green eyes, failing to see the jaded woman underneath, and wanted her. All of her.

Truly in that first glance, he had fallen hard. He grew to love her, cherish her, wanted to give her everything he possessed. And while he would be loath to admit it, there was a still an attachment, a stubborn pride that demanded that she submit to him, that she desire him as he had her all those years ago.

Still, knowing what he knew now he would have let her fall. In fact, he would have pushed her out the window himself. 'Freak accident,' he would have declared to the horrified residents and pedestrians below. 'Just a freak accident. Nothing to see.'

Like a simpleton, he saved her life and like a fool he allows her to goad him in death. Maybe it's because, in the back of his mind, he wanted to believe, to entertain the idea that she could have cared, but looking into her eyes he knows that she never has. Not even once. How could he ever compete with a 20ft god on a screen?

"Mrs. March," he admonished huskily, eyes twinkling as he saw her own flash in anger at being called by her married name. "How could you possibly leave without having dessert? After all," he went on to say, his famed charismatic smile in place, "it is the very best part."

Reaching forward, he gripped a silver bell and gave it a little shake.

At once Miss Evers appeared. "Here you go, sir," she sang as she came through the door, struggling slightly with a young woman who was bound and gagged. The frightened young woman gave a muffled scream, her doe brown eyes pleading for them to help her as she tried her best to pull herself from Miss Evers' hold.

"I thought you would know my type by now, James."

James said nothing. He merely waited for Miss Evers to throw the girl, whoever she was, on the bed and dart outside. "This a hefty one, sir. Quite the fighter."

A blonde brow went up.

Turning in her chair, Elizabeth watched as Miss Evers dragged a young man by his leather-clad ankles. The man jerked like mad, practically lifting himself off the floor as he tried to pull his legs free, cursing at Miss Evers through the gag. But death gives Miss Evers added strength and she shushes him. "Now there will be none of that," she stated, slapping his leg with her hand. "Behave yourself!" Gritting her teeth, she pulled him further inside the room.

When Elizabeth caught sight of his face, she felt her pulse quicken. Lips parted, she breathed him in. "He's full of rage," she purred seconds later, pupils' lust blown. "I can smell it."

It's more than rage. James knows exactly why she likes this young man. From his raven hair and chocolate eyes, all the way down to the point of his chin, James knows why she's so damned pleased; he is the spitting image of her deity.

"Are you satisfied?"

Looking back at him Elizabeth gifted him with one of her rare half-moon smiles, the kind that touches her eyes for a heartbeat before they become vacant once more. "Very much so," she replied coolly.

"Well, please," he said, motioning to screaming pair in the bedroom, "have your dessert. Enjoy it." With a grace that still made his heart constrict, he watched her rise from her chair and make her way over to her meal.

Blood splattered across the Western wall in a great arc. Entranced, James watched the blood begin to run down the wall slowly, adding to the morbidity of the arc. It was absolutely beautiful.

The injured woman let out a gurgled, bubbled up scream and stole his attention. Gazing at Elizabeth's curved backside in her green Dior dress, he wished that he could join her. But that wish was quickly discarded when she, with blood dribbling down her chin, looked to her false idol.

James waited for the kill, yearned for it. She didn't lay a finger on the man. Gripping the armrest so tight that the wood cracked in protest, James leaned forward in his chair, eyes glued to their interaction.

Leaning across the bed, she whispered something into the man's ears that James couldn't make out. Pulling back from him she received his nod and did the unthinkable. She... smiled... at him. Not a grin or even the rare half smile she had gifted James just minutes ago, but a real smile.

Fury snaked along James' spine, slithering higher until it went off like a gunshot in his mind. Slinking back into his chair, he narrowed his eyes at the pair and dug out his cigarette case from the pocket of his brown pinstriped jacket. _Traitorous wench,_ he declared silently as he lit his cigarette.

While it angered him he couldn't say it took him by surprise. Putting out the match he had to admit that deep down he knew she would save his life, which is why her doing so fit so well into his plan. After he killed Rosaline, whenever that was, he would take the life of her false idol next.

Blowing out smoke his eyes gleamed at the thought. Not only will he have feasted on a well-deserved meal, but he would have destroyed another deity, killed another god. Why even now he could still hear the sound of, Rudolph Valentino's, fists pounding against the steel wall as he shouted for help that would never arrive.

"Thank you," Elizabeth purred, drawing his attention. Though she thanked him, she had eyes only for the young man who was now under her spell. "I came for a meal and leave with a gift." Taking the man by the hand, she guided him to the door. "Until next time, James."

The champagne glass broke in his hand.

Still in his seat, James could feel blood pool in his hand. It didn't bother him. Soon the glass would push itself out, the wounds would close, and he would wipe the blood off his fingers with his handkerchief. Taking another drag from his cigarette he exhaled slowly.

As he inhaled a ragged breath an all too familiar scent tickled his nose. It was not the cigarette. Eyes flying to the serving tray in the corner, he spied a tall crystal trumpet. _It couldn't be, could it?_ Putting out his cigarette he pushed back from the table, ignoring the stinging of the glass as it was just his mind toying with him, reminding him of what physical pain felt like, and moved toward the tray.

Standing before it, he peered down at the clear liquid inside.

"W _hy do you insist on drinking that nonsense before every meal?" He asked one evening. "The sherbet does a much better job of clearing your palate, I'm sure."_

"I _t's not used to clear my palate," Elizabeth answered. "I drink to remember."_

Clutching the neck of the bottle, he brought it up to his nose. As the scent pierced his olfactory bulb his eyes fluttered closed and he groaned. He can see her, see Rosaline as she walked alongside the fountain with the sun in her hair and her eyes on him...

The clear liquid flowed between his lips and trickled down his throat.

Eyes flying open, the bottle slipped from his fingers. Like her scent he can taste this, this... rose water. The taste, though subtle, is strong on his tongue.

More than just providing taste, it expunges his rage. Dazed James stared out the window, eyes roaming over everything yet seeing nothing at all. Bit by bit the gnawing fury ebbed away and a peace like he had never known took hold of him.

For a moment, he was lost.

Closing his eyes, he can feel the sunlight on his body, see the curves of Rosaline's smile, and feel her pulse race as he holds her hand, guiding her along the path under the cover of Oak trees... Another memory has formed, securing a place in his brain. With the newfound taste and memory, came mystery. Mystery and rage.

"Who are you to curb my indignation?" He questioned aloud as his eyes opened.

Blinking the city into focus, he clenched his jaw tight, causing a muscle to flex. Whoever Rosaline was—whatever she was, he was going to find out. He was going to expose her secret, rip it from her breast if he had too, and then he would destroy her. Desecrate her soul for daring to limit the one thing he had left, his wrath.

Sunday couldn't come soon enough.


	5. A Colorful Frenzy

**Author's Note:** I took a bit of risk with this chapter, but as for this week's episode, I feel that James can be... vulnerable. Know that this chapter is incredibly long. Sorry, not sorry. I don't know why or how I do it, but I can't write a short chapter to save my soul!

One last thing, I have a Tumblr. Check it out: nefariousundertakingsDOTtumblr Also, I have a Pinterest account which is my inspirational art board of sorts. Take a glance, it's really quite nice pinterestDOTcom/culturalescape

 _VampWolf92:_ You are a woman of few words. I like it.

 _Ngome055:_ Thanks for your comment. You have no idea how much enjoyment I received from you mentioning Rosa as being a part of James' former life. Wow. Just... wow. I definitely think things would have been different had she born in his time, but as the story unfolds you'll realize that everything happens for a reason. After all, this a revival!

 _Eserechia:_ Thank you for your messages and enthusiasm.

* * *

 **A Colorful Frenzy**

Unseen James continued to lean against the café window, the smoke from his cigarette blending in with those at the table nearest him. For the past few days, his mind had been in a bit of an uproar and all because of one woman, Rosaline Cortez. It still didn't make such sense to him. After being dead for centuries he thought he had seen and done it all, but alas, he was wrong.

Eyeing the small crowd as they drank their drinks and made merry conversation, he searched for a spark among them. Dark hearts popped out at him, not black, but a murky blue or rotted green. Envious, depressed, lacking... So many things, but not a single one of them truly evil.

That's where he went wrong with Rosaline.

So moved was he by her beauty and that sudden shock, that he didn't even think to focus on her person, to try and see her aura, her true nature. Not that it would matter as most individuals had only two specific colors, red or blue, but still, it was worth a try.

Now mind you, it wasn't going to change anything. After all, he wanted a challenge and every twist and turn that came from her made for a more spirited chase. Smiling softly, he had to admit that he liked the feeling. It made him roar in frustration, yes. Sometimes to the point where he wanted to slam his head into the wall, or quite frankly someone else's, but it also made his nonexistent blood flow and his heart race. It... she... renewed his vitality.

Taking another long drag of his cigarette, his pupils began to dilate. Lowering the cigarette from his face, he exhaled smoke and inhaled _roses._

The bell chimed.

The warmth of the room along with random bits of conversation, laughter, and the buzz of blenders greeted Rosaline as she stepped into the café.

The Rise and Grind was a fairly large building, modern in design, and divided into two levels. The first held the sales counter, the kitchen, along with elaborate glass casings that displayed what the café was most famous for, their pastries. As for the second level, which was made accessible by a black metal staircase, it was roped off.

Hooking the strap of her purse higher over her shoulder, Rosaline tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and eyed the patrons looking, searching, for James. Standing on the tip of her navy heels, she tried to peer over the crowd, silently cursing her short stature when she couldn't see past the third table.

Resting fully on her heels once more, she spied movement from the corner of her eye.

Turning slowly, her midnight eyes fell to a table tucked away in the corner by the window. Sunlight filtered in and she swore she saw wisps of pale smoke rising up in the air, seeming to come from the window itself. Eyes widening, she watched as a faint silhouette began to take shape. It appeared as if someone was leaning against the glass.

When the barista called out a name, Rosaline snapped back to attention. Staring at the window once more, she no longer saw wisps of smoke or the figure. As the male customer moved she saw the man's reflection in the glass and quickly dismissed the earlier figure as a trick of the light.

Withholding a sigh she gnawed at her lower lip and smoothed out the folds in her dress. Her dress was white with a bateau neckline and blue-gold floral embroidery along the hem and across her waist, perfectly accentuating her curves, appearing flirty yet modest. Glancing down at her watch she wondered if James had even arrived. "He doesn't seem like the type to be late," she muttered to herself.

The rhythmic clicking of heels stole her attention.

Looking over to the right, she spied brown oxfords that were polished to a shine and making their descent down the staircase.

"Hello, Rosaline," James greeted in his smooth baritone with a twinkle in his eye. "Thank you so much for joining me."

Once again he was dressed handsomely in charcoal grey trousers and a starched white shirt, along with a black pinstripe waistcoat, and black ascot. As he closed the distance between them his waistcoat opened revealing dark plum suspenders. At that Rosaline's smile widened; she always had a thing for suspenders.

Used to his manners, or should I say, expecting another kiss, she held out her hand to him.

Taking her hand in his, he pulled her toward him, his other hand coming to rest on the curve of her hip. Rosaline inhaled sharply when she felt his lips press against her cheek. "Forgive me," he whispered along her skin, the action sending a shiver down her spine. "I was taught to greet one with a kiss when all proper formality had been taken. So if I may..." He kissed her again.

That small kiss had quite an effect.

Flames danced along her skin. Standing so close as he was she could smell the pleasing scent of his cologne along with cigarette smoke; it made her head spin, but in the most delightful way possible. Swallowing hard, she struggled to reign in her emotions and to keep her knees from buckling. Yet as his kiss lingered, the flames along her body began to spread, burning her from the outside in.

Just the same as Rosaline, James was also affected by the seemingly innocent kiss.

Standing with his lips still pressed against her skin, James swore that he had just been hit by a freight train. Far more than a shock, this was like a bullet to the brain. More than anything he wanted to trail his lips, further along, her velvety, smooth skin, to inhale that pleasing floral scent, but he didn't dare. This was a staged performance and he had a role to play.

"You look lovely," he declared as he pulled back. Truly she looked a vision, especially now with that luxurious crimson blush governing her cheeks and her midnight eyes littered with his favorite constellations.

"Thank you, James." She returned, surprised when her voice didn't shake.

Gifting her with a charming smile, he took her hand in his and led her toward the staircase.

"I didn't know what you would prefer," he began as they started up the stairs. "So I took the liberty of having them prepare their very best, which to my surprise was a vast assortment of baked goods. Nevertheless, I am more than certain that you will find something to your liking."

"Oh, there was no need for that. Really, James, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

Pausing at the top of the landing Rosaline stared in shock at the scene before her.

Adorning every table was a modern rectangular vase with calla lilies positioned in such a way that they formed a circle, with one or two extending out of the vase itself. Around the vases were various pastries: cakes, scones, muffins, tarts, a few of which she had never seen before.

"D-did you plan all of this?" She asked, unable to take her eyes off the flowers.

"Most certainly."

Gripping her hand more firmly, he guided her further inside. Rosaline's eyes wandered over the white calla lilies and sweet treats, a moment before they fell to their own private table. It was small and circular, sitting right in front of the large windows were dazzling rays of sunlight filtered in. It was like being inside a movie or a dream.

"Allow me," he said pulling out her chair.

Resting exquisitely in a short ceramic vase and arranged with grasses and wildflowers, were bright magenta roses. Unable to help herself she leaned forward and ran her fingertips along one's edge. A smile came to her lips at the feel of its silky, smooth petals. "I've never seen a rose like this before," she confessed.

"It's a rare breed," he told her as he took his seat across from her. "Known as the Darcey rose, it is noted for the formation of its petals along with its vibrant hue. However, the true rarity is that unlike other roses which wilt and lose their beauty, this rose grows more striking over time." Pausing for a moment, he looked over the flowers and murmured, "Even in death they possess an ethereal beauty that can leave one utterly captivated."

Placing her elbows on the table, Rosaline leaned forward and closing her eyes, inhaled its light fruity fragrance.

The simple action put him in a bit of a predicament.

Having been born in the time that he was, it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to remove her elbows from the table and that such a display was quite lacking in propriety. However, the very sight was rather... endearing.

Staring at her with his brow furrowed James tried to think of a time where Elizabeth had done this. He couldn't think of a single instance that wasn't forced or for a show, not during their brief courtship, marriage, or even after his death. Not once had Elizabeth been so pleased as to innocently, impulsively, inhale the fragrance of flowers as Rosaline did. Why the two women were like night and day.

Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter. "How do you..." he trailed off. 'How do you like them?' He was going to ask until he lost his voice. 'Are they your favorite flower?' He would have inquired next. All of this and more would have been said if he could only find the words.

Shimmering rays of sunlight struck her person making him speechless. Dark eyes rooted to her figure, James watched as magnificent golden rays of light morphed around her body giving her an angelic appearance, casting above her head a rare halo of sorts. Never, not once had he ever seen a... _soul_... like hers.

The longer he stared dumbfounded, the more relaxed she became, losing herself in her own little world. When she opened her eyes, her gaze rising to his own, she smiled revealing her aura's color to him. James' mouth fell open.

"Sorry to interrupt," the barista began making his way to their table, "but would you like something to drink now?"

"Do you make mocha cappuccinos?" Rosaline asked, slightly oblivious to James' newfound plight.

If Rosaline wanted them to make water into wine, it would have been done that day. James had already paid them a small fortune to cater to her every whim and they would not disappoint.

"We sure do." The barista answered, green eyes sparkling. "Would you like it topped with whipped cream?"

"Please."

Nodding his head, the barista looked toward James. _Damn, this man is sprung_. "And for you, sir?" he asked, unable to hide his grin over James' state.

Pulled from his stupor, James answered, quite breathlessly, "I'll take a coffee—black." As the man turned to go, James spoke once more. "Also, do be so kind as to," he motioned to the various baked goods around him them with his hand, "...put together an assort of your pastries for the lady, please. Thank you."

With the barista running off to do his bidding, James pulled himself together. In less than thirty seconds flat he had gone from being cool and sophisticated to a besotted schoolboy. Granted that what he had seen would take anyone by surprise, it was still a bit of a carbuncle to witness, a sort of low blow to a man who was always in control.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" He asked.

Rosaline shook her head. "No, go ahead."

It was the wrong thing to do. Sunlight merely reflected off his gold cigarette case and hit her form, making her all the more striking. _Damn it all to hell._

Tapping his cigarette against the case, he regarded her with a sharp eye. That color was rare, far too rare to be seen. While he had come to the café to tempt her, to murder her for curbing his indignation from days past, he was now... curious. Placing his cigarette between his lips he lit a match.

It would seem that death would have to wait until his curiosity was satisfied.

"Here are your pastries," a red-haired waitress informed as she set down a tiered serving tray.

The same barista from earlier came up with their drinks, as another girl trailed behind with a smaller tray of freshly prepared fruit tarts, cream, and sugar. "One mocha cappuccino and black coffee, coming your way."

Of course, they had been trained, scratch that, the _demand_ had been made for expert service. That being said, they all served on the left, making sure to keep their heads and arms from blocking James' or Rosaline's view.

As the other two set up their table, the younger barista set out to make herself useful and reached for the pot of cream.

With an air of superiority that could not be feigned, James immediately held up his hand, palm facing outward, a silent gesture that roared, **'STOP!'** Inhaling sharply the girl froze in her movements, a lock of her brown hair falling over her face as she jerked like a locomotive. "My order was for black coffee," he reproved, shooting fire at her with his eyes.

"I'm s-sorry."

Knowing that Rosaline was watching him like a hawk and seeing the mild contempt that was forming in her eyes at his _mild_ chastisement, he immediately put on a smile, forcing it to reach his eyes. "No need to apologize. Accidents do happen." He sang cheerfully.

Had this happened in his hotel James would have sent her down the chute alive, making sure to toss the damned pot after her, so that if she survived the fall it would knock some damn sense into her!

Taking in his smile, the young woman could see no malice or his true morbid thoughts and smiled. "Really," James continued, selling his merry tune for all it was worth, "you have all gone above and beyond with your expert service. Truly, I for one couldn't be more pleased."

The girl's smile widened even more but still she didn't move.

Applying gentle pressure on the pot, James set it in the upright position, and pushed it, along with the barista, away from him and his drink. "Thank you," he droned, dark eyes giving off sparks. It appeared that the old phrase was true; good help was most certainly hard to find.

"Beth!" The barista whispered fiercely.

Snapping to attention Beth took her eyes off James and looked at her two superiors. Blushing to the roots of her brown hair, she stammered, "L-let us know if you need anything else." And with that, took off like a rocket toward the staircase with the others.

Gazing after them James concluded that the pot of cream wouldn't be enough. No, he would have to toss the coffee pot after Beth as well. Quite possibly even the sugar dish. _That would be an awful lot of dishes_ , he thought to himself as he rubbed his jaw. _Goodness, Miss Evers would need to have a serving cart on standby!_

Taking a tentative sip of her mocha cappuccino, Rosaline eyed James from above the rim. While one could easily misplace his actions and label him as a rude customer, or quite possibly dismiss it altogether, she had seen that tiny gesture of his hand and knew it was second nature. James was used to having things go to plan, performed to his liking. Then again, how many times had she bitched when she took a sip of her coffee and discovered that it wasn't what she ordered? While she didn't make it a point to grumble to the baristas face, it did momentarily ruin her mood. Perhaps that's what happened now.

"Tell me about the outside world," James asked of her suddenly. "How was work?"

Setting down her cup she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "Nothing too eventful, just a mountain of paperwork at the office. What about you?"

"Oh, I don't work. I'm retired."

Taking her eyes off the chocolate muffin, she looked up at him. Briefly, her eyes darted over his face. "'Retired?'" She repeated, unable to mask her surprise. "How can you be retired? You're what, twenty-eight, thirty at the most?" As she waited for his answer she remembered what he said that day in the park.

 _"Unlike you, I did not have a knack for design, a love for architecture, not yet. So I studied business like my father before me and I did well. Very well."_

Though it wasn't that surprising in this day and age, as more and more people were reaching that pinnacle of success early in life, it was still odd to meet someone in person who had achieved such a feat.

Tilting his head this way and that, James scrunched up his face as though he were trying hard to remember his age. "I am neither twenty-eight or thirty, but 120 years old. What can I say, there must be some forces at work keeping me alive," he told her with a wink.

Rosaline snorted, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Well, if you're 120, then I'm 140!" She teased.

A sincere grin graced his lips. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were," he told her honestly. "You have a very... old... soul." Eyeing her up and down he asked, "How old are you really, twenty-five?"

Rosaline nodded. "And you are...?"

"Your first guess was correct," he answered. So he was twenty-eight. Eternally.

A comfortable silence lapsed between them then.

Leaning back into his chair James smoked his cigarette watching as she reached for all of her favorite pastries, converting them to memory though he didn't know why. Polite to a fault she always asked if he wanted something, nearly making herself sound like a broken record. Though unlike a broken record that would make one annoyed, it tickled him.

"You have a penchant for fruit and chocolate," he remarked when she took another raspberry Mogador.

At that she blushed. If left to her own devices, this tray, and the tables behind her would be clear in no time. No doubt she was gorging herself and her cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel, but caution and formality be damned! "Yes," she returned, reaching for another chocolate caramel muffin as well. "Always have. Though you don't seem to like anything that's being offered."

"Correction, I like you."

That deep vibrato sent a shiver all the way to her thighs. Licking her lips, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "Sadly, I'm not offering myself in that manner."

A cheeky smile came to his lips.

Rosaline's words didn't mean that she was uninterested. The underlining message was simple, 'I know my worth and it is far more than what you implied.' In that moment she had schooled him expertly, making it known that she would not be an easy woman to bed.

"I stand corrected," James told her. "Though understand, I meant no disrespect. I can see your value," he went on to say, his gaze roaming along her aura, "and you are priceless."

Sincerity. His words were laced with the utmost sincerity and it broke through the wall she had been quickly forming.

"Now that we understand each other better, tell me why you don't prefer sweets."

All through her _light_ meal, James had merely smoked and taken sip after sip of his coffee. The truth of the matter was that in life he had been fond of chocolate, however, death made food taste either like cardboard or intolerably bitter. While his mental state had improved to allow his senses to be tricked, eating was still something he couldn't fully grasp the concept of. Not only could he feel the texture in his mouth, but he felt it going down his throat and into his nonexistent stomach. Where it went after that was beyond him. Needless to say, eating made him a bit iffy.

"Chocolate was always my treat of choice." Tapping his ashes into the ashtray he went on to say, "Chocolate, ice cream, Coca-Cola... All of that and more was a rarity in my home. If one was in possession of it, fights would ensue." As the words left his mouth he wished he could take them back. How had that bit of truth come from him and why?

Rosaline's lips curved into a smile. There was only one reason why a fight would break out over candy. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"

Clenching his jaw tightly, he saw their faces. While he wanted to deny it, he couldn't. "Yes," he answered, voice slipping into a monotone. "Sadly they've all passed away."

Immediately she was contrite. "James, I'm sorry. I had no idea..."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he interrupted. "Such is life."

The statement was said in such a way to imply that he was over their deaths, but looking into his eyes, Rosaline knew better. There was an underlying sorrow lingering in his tone and a haunting misery lurking within the depths of his eyes. Something tragic had happened. Something he couldn't let go of.

Wanting to make up for her blunder as well as to expunge that look from his eyes she put on a smile. "So tell me, James, what do you do in your spare time, other than renting the top floor of café's, of course."

"Ha-ha," he laughed, pleased by her jest and for the smooth transition in the topic. "Let's see, when I am not tending to _roses_ ," he began, looking slyly at her, "I enjoy listening to music and reading." _Not to mention mass murder_ , he silently added.

"Favorite artist?"

Taking a sip of his bitter and much beloved black coffee, he muddled it over. "Sidney Bechet and Bessie Smith. You know," he said leaning forward as he grew excited, "I once saw her perform in person, Bessie, voice like a dream; so much strength and pain. Why it was..." He trailed off when Rosaline arched a brow. "Now what is that look for?" He questioned.

"You said you saw, Bessie Smith, in person."

"I did!" He declared with so much honesty and gusto that she laughed.

"Bessie Smith died in 1937, James."

Blinking hard, he immediately realized his blunder. "Oh, well, about that..." Clearing his throat he tried to find a way out. What had Liz Taylor remarked to watching one afternoon? Ah, yes! "Ha-ha, so silly of me. What I meant to say, was that I saw a documentary about Bessie Smith on the You Tub! ...or was it a new tube?"

"Hahaha!" Rosaline threw her head back, laughing at him.

Tears came to her eyes and when she finally got herself under control, she saw his embarrassed facial expression and laughed heartily once more.

"YouTube. It's called, YouTube." Wiping the moisture from her eyes she chuckled again. "Now that I know you are not a modern man, why don't tell me some more about your favorite Jazz artists."

It took everything in him not to duck his head in embarrassment or to lean across the table and kiss that mouth of hers. Licking his lips, he twirled his sapphire pinky ring on his finger revealing, for the first time, his very own nervous gesture.

"Why don't you tell me one of your favorites," he returned. "Seeing as you watch the most YouTube," he drawled with a wiggle of his brows, making her laugh, "you should be quite the expert."

"Hmm, I was always fond of, Robert Johnson."

An old soul she was. "I too like him. Such a shame his life was cut short; he would have been one of the great ones."

"You know," she began, voice lowering slightly, the husky tone driving him to the brink of distraction. "It's believed that he sold his soul to the devil to achieve success."

James resisted the urge to arch a brow at her words. Had Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, he would have become an honorary member of Devil's Night. Though still, Rosaline brought out a playful nature in him, so he allowed his eyes to widen.

Letting out a shocked gasp, he sat up straight in his chair and shouted, "Horsefeathers!"

Taken back by the old explicative she stared at him in shock. Then her eyes began to twinkle, lips curving upward, shoulders shaking as she tried to control herself.

"Oh, go ahead and laugh," James told her in mock disappointment as he shrugged his shoulders. "I won't take offense," he added, turning away from her. "Really, just go on with it. Make me feel like an old man for saying... horsefeathers."

That second time did it.

"Hahaha!"

It took some time for them to come down from his joke, primarily because he was so moved by the sound of her laughter and she was smitten by his boyish smile. So each one kept repeating the word, determined to see that smile linger, for the laughter to echo.

Chuckling one last time James rubbed at his brow. _Horsefeathers._ _That saying probably went out the same year that it was introduced._

Turning back again to face her, he saw that lovely aura. "Tell me something, do you believe that one can see another's soul, their aura?"

Well, that was a quick way to sober up.

Biting her lip, Rosaline thought it over a bit in her mind. "No."

"Why not?" He inquired further, genuinely curious.

Resting her elbows on the table, she placed her hands under her chin, another move that was completely lacking yet utterly adorable. "People change," she stated simply.

"That is true, however, I'm speaking of your soul, what lies at the base of your being."

"Only God knows that."

A believer. Rosaline was a... believer. If there was a god, then James would have laughed heartily in his face for making such a soul and allowing her to fall into his clutches.

"Alright so as a believer..."

"A Catholic," she corrected.

This was just too perfect. "A Catholic," he conceded. "As a Catholic, you no doubt believe in miracles, prophets, angels and demons, even certain mystics such as your Saints. So, why not an aura?"

"When it comes to angels and demons, you know that an angel serves God, protects man, and a demon does the exact opposite. As for miracles, I'm sure you don't need a definition of that. Though when it comes to Saints... Saints are not mystics, but men and women of faith who persevered, and prophets were chosen specially by God to share His word and guide His people. So, why a belief in these things and not a person's aura? It's because the color of someone's... being, does not equate to what they can achieve or foretell what they will do." Pausing for a moment, she stared into his eyes. "Life changes us. We can start out innocent and sweet, yet one wrong choice or series of events can lead us spiraling out of control."

For so long he paused reflecting on her words that the cigarette burned his fingers.

Silently he allowed himself to feel the heat, to burn. The first part of her speech he could ignore, as it was just more rhetoric that he had heard throughout his years, however, that last portion... That last piece had struck a nerve.

Before he could ponder her words further, before a series of faces could pass by his eyes, she spoke. "Though that's just my belief. Now tell me," she told him, taking the last sip of her cappuccino. "What color is my aura?"

What had been intended to be a soft approach into the topic, was now a personal vendetta.

Allowing the cigarette butt to fall into the ashtray James wiped his hands on a napkin so that the wound could heal out of her sight.

"Do I need to...?"

"Just be silent," he instructed. "I just need you to be silent, to relax."

Rosaline tilted her head to the side. _He's serious._ Setting down her cup she crossed her arms over her chest and waited. For what, she didn't know.

Time passed them by. Slowly the mindless chatter downstairs was drowned out and Rosaline started to daydream, her mind wandering off to a plain only she could venture. James saw it then. Around her body a faint glow began to emerge, radiating outward and blending with the sun.

"Violet," he spoke. "Your aura is violet. However, there's a lighter shade of lavender just above it which means your prone to fantasy, daydreaming."

When Rosaline's eyes widened a fraction he knew he had her.

Lips curving into a devilish grin, he continued on. "Regal by nature which explains how you move about the crowd with your head held high, you have an innate confidence. It's not a saying for you or sign of personal respect, it runs much deeper. This confidence allows you to know your true worth. But your nervous system troubles you, yes?" At her blush, his grin widened into a smile. "Sensitive. People with violet auras are very sensitive."

"Sensitive to what?" She asked before she could stop herself.

"All things. Highly intuitive, no doubt you've been called a visionary," he said laid leaning back into his chair, in control once more.

"That could be said about many people."

"True, but the kicker is that _you know_ they are speaking the truth; you can feel it in your blood." A wicked gleam came into his eyes as he added, "Sensitive not just with your nervous system, but the mystical aspects of life and death as well, perhaps you've experienced things that are beyond reasoning. Perchance you may have _felt something_ , or _seen something_ that can't be explained."

Immediately her mind wandered back to that day at the mansion. Pulse racing, she reflected on that cold kiss along her skin, that heavy presence that made her stomach churn, and most of all that malevolent shadow. That shadow was the cause of a few nights spent tossing and turning.

"Though that's just my belief," he said turning her words back on her, watching as she nearly fell inside herself.

Licking her lips, she tucked hair behind both her ears. "That's... pretty good," she remarked. "How do you do it?"

James gave a short laugh at her fast interest. "It takes time and patience."

"Tell me."

Tilting his head to the side, he eyed her seriously. As her aura was violet, mystical, there was no end to what she could achieve, what they could achieve _together_. Far from corruption, he wanted to utilize this gift of hers, to see what great heights she could reach and he could benefit from.

Though still, a test needed to be done. Was she a weak mystic or strong?

"Very well." Sitting up straight, he stared deep into her eyes. "First, I will relax and you will have to look at me, really look at me." Waiting for her nod, he continued. "In the beginning, you will see a faint outline of white, that is not my aura, but sunlight, overhead lamps," he said pointing to the light fixtures above them. "You'll have to be patient to wait for another color to appear."

"And when it does?"

James couldn't hold back his smile at that. She was so damned cocky it warmed his heart. "Then you will tell me what you see and how it makes you feel." Pausing he saw that stubborn point of her chin and the look of determination come into her eyes and knew she wanted to hit him hard, too quickly label him as he had her. Damn, she was an interesting woman.

"Ready?" He asked. Rosaline nodded. "Then let's begin."

For the first few minutes, Rosaline had thought, believed, it was something simple. After five minutes or more had ticked by she knew that not only was it impossible, but she was dealing with an absolute lunatic! Gritting her teeth, she crossed her arms tighter over her chest and gazed at him with fire blazing in her eyes. It was hard enough to think with all the chatter going on downstairs along with that ringing of the bell at the door but far worse than that, he was being smug. It was like he knew she wouldn't be able to get to him. That she would admit defeat sooner or later.

Little did James know, it wasn't in Rosaline to give up, to surrender.

"Hold still," she instructed, uncrossing her arms and trying to regroup. "I'm still trying."

James didn't say anything. He didn't have too. His eyes were doing all the talking; quite literally they seemed to say, 'See, little one, it's not as easy as you thought, now is it?' Followed by, 'So much for your earlier beliefs.' It was that silent statement that gave her added zeal.

Resting her hands in her lap, she took a deep breath in. Exhaling slowly, she stared into his eyes. Though he hadn't told her where to look, she knew that the eyes were the gateway to the soul. That if she wanted to know his true intentions, his damned aura, she would have to look there.

Dammit, that was, even more, distracting. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she tried to stare past the rich brown hue and to see something more. _How in the hell had he done it?_

"Would you like to stop now?" He asked softly, the gleam in his eyes growing.

"No," she nearly growled.

Knowing he had done that on purpose to throw he off, she tried to shake it off, to relax. That was it! She was thinking too hard. When he had looked at her, he had waited for her to daydream, to relax. By doing so, he had to have been relaxed too, right? _Alright, Rosaline, it's time to go off the grid._

A change was in the air.

Staring at her as he was James could feel it.

Rosaline looked into his eyes and focused on the brown hue, taking the shade of color with her as her mind wandered, jumping from thought to thought, plain to plain. Brown. It made her think of... chocolate. How she couldn't wait for the day after Valentines to splurge on all the marked down candy and also of... the seasons and how much she loved autumn.

Staring off into his eyes, her mind elsewhere, she twirled about that rich chocolatey brown. Earth... The ground... Slowly she envisioned the great outdoors and working with her hands on a...

"Farm," she said suddenly.

Pulled from his sensual frame of mind, James took his gaze off her rosy mouth and met her eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"A farm," she repeated, her newfound spell making her voice like the wind, barely there. "I see brown and it reminds me of a farm. Even though your success came early in life, you weren't always wealthy or put together, were you?" Not waiting for an answer she continued on saying, "That's how you achieved your status; you worked hard for it. So hard you would have broken your back or your hands, the cause of your fame, to get what you wanted, to be where you wanted to be."

Now it was James who stared in shock.

It didn't matter that her aura was violet, that she was in her own sense a type of mystic, it shouldn't... It shouldn't have come to her mind. More importantly, she shouldn't have seen that color, she should have seen... "Black," she stated next.

If he had drawn in a breath he would have choked on it.

Locked in a trance, her eyes left his own and fell lower to his chest. "It's so dark," she whispered. "Your heart is as black as the ace of spades."

How many times had he used that line on others and himself? Too many to count. Licking his lips, he made to interrupt, not wanting to know what she would say, yet too enthralled to pull back now.

"Just like your solitary hobbies of reading and music, you once found solace in the outdoors; you were free. Free from your troubles, your problems. That's why it's so dark now; you let your problems take over you." Not even aware of what she was doing, she placed her hands flat on the table and leaned forward slightly. "Once controlled, you now take control to mute, block out everyone around you." Tilting her head to the side, she sighed. "That's not all you do, is it? Not only can you _darken_ a color, you can _transform_ it."

Suddenly Devil's Night makes more sense, doesn't it reader? As they say, misery loves company.

"A flaw in your carefree façade is your inability to forgive, to forget. That lack of forgiveness has you carrying so much weight, so much anger, and pain. So much... grief."

Blinking profusely, she stared at the empty chair before her.

"J-James?" she whispered, slowly coming out of her meditative state. "James?" She called louder.

Eyes falling to the table she saw his cigarette case along with his jacket still draped over the back of his chair. She saw all of this but no sign of the man who owned them. Not only could she not remember him leaving, or moving, but she couldn't even recall what she had spoken of. And so she sat there wondering what on earth had happened to make him run off, to vanish into thin air.

* * *

Just blocks away in room 64, James was in a frenzy.

Vividly he saw those barren fields, saw that shack, and his... father.

" _You will not step one foot into this home until you've brought in everything that can be taken from those fields," his father, Elijah March, instructed, his voice razor sharp and cutting James in all the right ways._

" _B-but paw, my hands are..." James couldn't continue, not with his father looking at him like_ _that._

 _Increasing his glare, Elijah leaned down until he was eye level with his son. Looking down at James' hands, he saw the callouses, the cuts, and didn't care in the slightest. So what James was only ten years old, he had a job to do._

" _This pain," Elijah stated, grabbing James' hand forcefully and squeezing hard enough to make him cry out, "is only temporary. Now git out there and into them fields, boy, and you do what the Good Lord instructed and respect and honor your father!" He roared spittle landing on James' cheek._

 _Staring fiercely at James with black, soulless eyes, he added, "You will honor me, boy. 'Cause if you don't, there will be no forgiveness for you, no salvation, or eternal glory!" Squeezing James' hand so hard that bones threatened to break, he finished by saying, "Now you git out there. You git out of this house, into them fields, and you work these tired hands until they can't work no more, and honor me by_ _making them bleed_ _."_

A chair was hurled at the wall.

In the background, some innocent hotel guest was crying, clutching at her abdomen, trying to make the bleeding stop. All her cries did was spur him on, becoming nothing more than morbid theme music.

Roaring in frustration, James threw a bedside lamp next. It was quickly followed by crystal glasses, a full bottle of brandy, and a wooden end table.

Panting he stood in the center of the room, his old office, which was now a complete ruin. His once neatly combed hair was in complete disarray, pointing every which way, with a few locks plastered to his forehead with sweat. Tugging his black ascot loose he made to throw it on the ground and paused, looking at his hands. Though faint he could still see the scars. He knew that even more were there, that they had just... healed. True to his father's command, he had bled that day. He had bled profusely.

" _A flaw in your carefree façade is your inability to forgive, to forget."_

Clenching his jaw tight, he balled his hands into fists.

" **HOW CAN I FORGIVE THAT?!"**

The force of his shout caused the woman to quiet, letting out just the slightest whimper.

James turned sharply toward her. "How can I forgive that?" He asked, his eyes glazed over. "How?" He asked once more, voice growing firmer, harder as he went on. "What... god, would allow for that to happen to a child, hmm? If you know the answer dear, speak up, I'm waiting to know it!"

Frightened the young woman pressed her back into the wall, crying out as the movement caused more pain to flow through her.

Stepping toward her James saw her little crucifix. _That won't do._

Her whimpering began when he picked up the knife.

Crouching down before her, he brushed back the hair from his face. "May I?" He asked, politely. Not waiting for an answer he lifted her necklace and stared down at the crucifix. "Do you still believe?" He asked her. "I know you're crying out for him on the inside, but look around you. He, god, is not here. All your crying, your whimpering, and he hasn't brought anyone to save you." Letting the crucifix fall back down on her chest he shook his head, rubbing at his eyes as though the image alone had burned them.

She murmured something.

Brow furrowed he leaned down, coming in closer. "What was that?"

Praying. After all this she was still praying, crying out to a deity he had never seen, not alive or even in death. How fucking pathetic!

"I'll tell you what since you're striving so hard to be a good disciple, I'll stab you twelve times. One for each of his Apostles!"

Just like that, the frenzy began again.

Worse than Rosaline revealing the colors of his aura or mentioning his past, she had cracked his walls. In so few words, in such little time, she had revealed an astonishing secret: that he wasn't born evil. Furthermore, just as he had broken down the others, all of his victims and Devil's Night guests, she had made known that he too had been down and out, broken and controlled, completely, and utterly helpless. In so few words she had made known that he was not at all the God he believed himself to be.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Please write a review!


	6. Gifts & Control

**A/N:** Merry Christmas! Enjoy this latest chapter.

* * *

 **Gifts & Control**

 **Four Days After the Café.**

Lying atop his bed, James stared up at the ceiling as his Bessie Smith record continued to play, watching as shadows, brought forth from passing cars and city lights, emerged and danced upon the walls. Try as he might he couldn't calm his racing mind; every thought would break off into a tangent, bringing him back to one man and one man only, his father.

If it was one thing James took away from his father it was this, _"Always keep somethin' set aside, James. Though the Lord will provide, His time is different than ours, son. So best save somethin' for a rainy day if ya can."_ The bastard had ended his bit of wisdom by giving James a nickel. All that manual labor in the fields and running about the city and James was given five cents for his efforts.

Reaching into the pocket of his brown waistcoat James removed his pocket watch. Upon opening it, he eyed the 1899 Liberty V Nickel that was molded into the inside cover with a look of condescension. Though years had passed the nickel was far from tarnished. If it had to be given a condition, it would be claimed as uncirculated and given its highest monetary value, which today would be well over four hundred dollars.

That's how poor James used to be; five cents was treated in the same way one would treat gold. The coin was stashed, buried deep along with a mountain of dreams and promises he hoped to fulfill. Who would have known that in his spark of clarity, his first all-consuming rage, he would dig deep into the earth to find that nickel and strike oil?

While the vast majority of James' wealth did go to Elizabeth after his death, he did have his own share stashed elsewhere. Not only that, but he lived in a time capsule. If he wanted, truly wanted, he could clean up overnight just by selling his records alone; all of them rare and in pristine condition. Not to mention he still had a Packard or two pulled around the back of the Hotel hidden from prying eyes.

While Elizabeth refused to love him, denied his advances and shunned him on occasion, his hidden wealth was one of the few things that made him smile. And though he willingly played the fool, James enjoyed watching as she spent every dime she had to her name, hustling, killing the rich just to make ends meet so she could continue to live in the lap of luxury.

Perhaps that's how his obsession with power, with status, began; with his desire to be someone different, to fit in with the times.

In such a jaded time as the '20s, money and background were everything. Becoming a millionaire overnight, James thought his life had changed for the better. He was wrong. Quickly he was spurned by the wealthy, more specifically, those with old money. In order to please them, he bettered himself. Quick like a whip he took a crash course in etiquette, hired private tutors, and became the perfect reflection of his peers. But it wasn't enough.

After murdering all those who still dared to taunt him, he packed up his bags and headed West for a new start.

Out in the west, in California, it didn't matter how you made your money, only that you had it. And James had plenty. Swiftly he waltzed in, painting the perfect picture, and made himself right at home amongst the newly rich, starlets, and passionate visionaries.

While James had worked hard for his money and polished persona, he was born with the gift of gab. All on his own, he could speak and make one feel as though they were talking to an old friend. With so few words James could draw people out of themselves, make them believe his lies, do his bidding and his alone.

As a result, he became highly controlling and manipulative.

Beyond the wealth and his ability to mold people, James was a killer and what had once been a release of pent up rage soon developed into an art form. After everything he had done, throughout his life and in death, there was no comparison to be made; murder was the ultimate high. And the more people he slaughtered, the more who worked for him and said, 'yes', chased after and waited on him hand and foot, the more James felt like a God among men.

Nearly a century of this mentality had been ingrained into James.

Now you can better understand his frustration, why he disappeared as he had. Not only had Rosaline hit him hard and broken him down, she shattered his frame of mind.

Granted there was a strength to be taken from admitting one's weaknesses, this was one James wanted dead and buried. After all, that's where the past should always be; behind him.

Snapping his pocket watch shut he unhooked the chain from his waistcoat and sat up. "Ugh," he groaned when his hand slipped into something thick and sticky.

Far from being disgusting by the blood, it was the lingering stench. Peering down beside him he eyed the deceased woman on the bed with a look of pure revulsion. James' growing disdain was nearly pushed over the limit when he took in her tanned skin, heart-shaped face, and black hair that was stringier than it was full and wavy.

This doxy was nothing more than a cheap imitation of the one he truly wanted to slay.

Tearing his eyes away from the mutilated corpse, he clenched his jaw and rose from the bed. Setting his pocket watch on the bedside table James made his way to the bathroom. Like his room, it was an ode of the '20s, with one or two upgrades such as the glass shower in the corner and a larger than life white claw foot tub.

Washing the blood off his hands, he quickly undressed. Throwing his clothing out onto the floor, he called out for one woman and one woman only. "Miss Evers!"

Almost instantly he heard her shuffling footsteps and rapid breathing as though she had run a mile to get to him.

"Yes, sir?" She called from outside, knowing not to step in front of the bathroom as such an action would lack propriety.

"I require an empty bed and fresh linens. Also," he continued, ducking his head out of the bathroom to look at her, "please work your nimble fingers and use a bit of your magic to remove the strumpet's blood and bile from my coat. I'm afraid when I brandished my weapon she grew so frightened as to begin choking, vomiting, and ruining my suit! Completely lackluster," he muttered about the kill, lips curling into a snarl.

Giddy at the sight of his bare well-toned shoulders Miss Evers took her time in answering. "Certainly, sir," she said at last. "I'll have those stains out before the night is through!"

James gave her a warm smile, one that reached his eyes. "Truly, Miss Evers, you are a pillar. I don't know what I would do without a woman like you in my life," he confessed with a wink that made her blush like a schoolgirl.

"Mr. March, you're such a flatterer. Go now. Off with you!" She said taking control of her poor ghostly heartstrings. "Go and draw a bath. I will have this clean and tidy by the time you're finished." Not waiting for him to reply, as she knew he wouldn't, she began to wrap the dead woman in the soiled linens.

"What a glorious stain," she praised lovingly.

Standing in the doorway and unashamed of his nakedness, James wondered how it would have been had he married her and not Elizabeth. His father had told him to marry a comely woman, someone who could take care of house and husband, and that was Miss Evers. But he didn't choose her.

After his father was dead and gone, James no longer wanted to live by all of his rules. Though still, she would have made one hell of a partner if it wasn't for her hang-up. No, it was not a lack of beauty or grace, but her sorrowfulness. Miss Evers, his sweet, sweet Hazel, though lovely and strong, was still so damned miserable about the loss of her boy.

For a man who didn't want to look back, that would have made James do an about-face and plant his feet; never moving, never turning around to live again. And he couldn't have that. Not then. Not now.

 _Thank you_ , he returned silently, watching as she hummed to herself as she worked. As if hearing his thoughts Miss Evers paused and flashed him a coquettish smile.

"Miss Evers, you should know better!" James admonished playfully when her lips parted at the sight of him in all his splendid glory. "Really, it is _you_ who flatter me," he said when she blushed to the roots of her red hair. Chuckling darkly, he gave her another sly wink and closed the door.

One great thing about being a ghost, you didn't have to feel the cold if you didn't want to. Crossing the black and white tiled floor, he made his way over to the tub and turned on the water, making sure to turn it all the way to the left so that it was scalding.

Steam rose enveloping him in a pleasant mist. While he stilled preferred a good soak in the tub, modern times did have its own appeal. That and he didn't want to sit in the water with that harlot's blood still splattered across his face.

Timing the flow of the running water, he quickly stepped into the shower.

Because it was such a rarity to have running water growing up, hot water especially, he always remembered with it felt like. A hot bath was damn near euphoric; it burned his skin in a delightful way, snaked along his back, and flooded his mind where it then made his vexations rise from his skull like bits of steam. It was utterly relaxing and one of the few memories, feelings, that came naturally to him as a ghost.

Reaching for the soap, he rubbed it all along his body, working it into a rich and foamy lather. As the water continued to rain over him, he moaned in pleasure. Repeating the process for the second time, he brushed his hair back from his forehead and breathed in deeply.

"Well, this is a disappointment."

On the package, it had said the soap smelled of pine and mint, but he couldn't smell it. Well, he could "smell it," that is he knew the scent, but it wasn't as though he were scenting it for the very first time.

Reaching for another bar of soap he repeated the process again and again until Miss Evers called out, "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Yes!" He shouted, turning off the water. "Pay me no never mind."

As he moved toward the tub water ran down his well-toned frame and dripped onto the floor, overhead lighting shining down to reveal his scars. Though faint, bitter ugly lines marred his back, proof of his violent upbringing.

Turning off the water just in time he stepped inside, lowering himself gently into the tub.

Leaning back, James stared down at the delicate swirl of cream and rouge in his hands. James didn't have to bring the bar of soap to his nose. There was no need. He could smell the scent of roses all around him.

Eyes wide open he saw her, Rosaline. Only now she wasn't walking with the sun in her hair, but moving wantonly beneath him. Licking his lips, he could still taste her on his tongue, feel the softness of her skin. That simple kiss on the cheek had created a longing in him. While he couldn't sleep, he had fantasy after fantasy about her. And in his mind, he had killed her a hundred times and made love to her for a thousand.

It was amusing if you thought about it, he was the phantom yet she was haunting him.

Letting the soap slip from his hands he watched the water splash, rippling before it settled once more. It had been a grave error on his part to disappear as he had that day. Not only would she wonder what had happened, reflect on what she had seen, but it was an extreme act of pusillanimity on his part.

So what she had called him out and made known his life of poverty, many people celebrated their rags to riches story!

James himself had celebrated until he was spurned by that damned East Egg crowd. Then he began to change, altering his background to better fit in. For so long James told his false tale about studying business like his father before him and being well-off, that when Rosaline mentioned the truth he panicked. Fled.

"Damn gypsy-eyed wench," he grumbled.

Sinking deeper into the water, he rested the side of his face against the tub.

There was no doubt in his mind that Rosaline was gifted in some way, a medium of sorts. That was the only plausible explanation. However, it still wasn't enough to explain his growing attraction or the connection he felt at the Mansion. Had that spark been felt by every forgotten soul she came across, she would have been well aware of her power. So not only was she unaware, but James himself didn't know what it was that drew him to her, or her to him.

At this point in the game, he wasn't going to entertain the notion that it was his old world charm that had done it. This was... This was something much more than that.

Even now tittering between rage and confusion James' hunkering was for far more than her corpse. He wanted her. All of her, right down to her violet lavender soul. If he could, he would trap her spirit in a glass jar, similar to how one would a firefly, and stare at it for hours on end. Yet at the same time, he wanted to kiss her, caress her smooth, velvety skin, and feel her hands on his body and in his hair. More still he wanted to hear the husky way in which she said his name _, James._

 _ **No!**_ _This isn't me._ This... This yearning for her wasn't his doing, at least not completely. And how he felt, these childish, romantic notions were feelings he had given up a long time ago. But damn it all if they didn't make him wonder about what could be.

 **... ... ...**

Mind now calm, his lust for blood appeased, James stood before the mirror combing his hair. Though he was as dead as a doornail, he was still a very handsome man. Tall with a fair complexion, dark hair and intense brown eyes, not to mention a diamond jawline, which made for one hell of a first glance.

If only it wasn't for his cause of death.

As he stared at his neck in the mirror a ghastly jagged stripe stared back. Setting the comb down on the counter he ran his fingertips along the edge of the cut, resisting the urge to press further inside. Though it was serrated and foul, it wasn't _that_ bad. After all, Miss Evers had a large entry wound at the back of her head! While his own wound could "disappear" it required too much concentration.

"Should have taken a damn cyanide tablet," he murmured, eyes still glued to his neck. "Then again, you would have lost your charming smile, old boy. And we can't have that, now can we?"

Shrugging his shoulders, he emerged from the bathroom with the corners of his mouth tilted up into a smile as he spied the freshly made bed and pristine linens. Walking past his infamous black closet, James strolled toward his dresser with nothing more than a towel hung low around his waist.

Men's undergarments during the 1920s were a dreadful affair. Mostly they consisted of either long or short leg sleeveless pieces, union suits, that James never cared for. Thankfully someone introduced silk boxer shorts; they became his favorite until the time changed. It wasn't out of some desperate attempt to feel alive, adapt with the time or even to entice the Countess, but all on his own that James began to wear boxer briefs. Not the lazy kind mind you, but the kind that molded to a man and fit perfectly in all the right places. Putting on his black boxer briefs, he reached for a loud pair of burnt orange and navy argyle socks next. Stepping into his brown trousers he made quick work of the rest of his clothing, putting on a white shirt and navy vest.

It wasn't until he began tying his ascot that the caught sight of himself in the mirror.

The ascot was white with blue-gold trimming. Just like her dress. Clenching his jaw, he tucked it more firmly into his shirt.

Not only had he yet to retrieve his coat and cigarette case from the café, but he had made no move to call Rosaline. He simply couldn't. At least not until his thoughts were in order and he knew more about her ability.

"Alright, you little minx," he spoke aloud, draping his coat over his arm, "our respite is over and your killer is coming for you. But first, one must come prepared." Reaching for his cane, he took one step forward and vanished into thin air.

* * *

"Hello, Billie. It's a pleasure to see you again."

Rooted in place, Billie Dean Howard stood in the middle of her foyer with her brown eyes rooted to the floor. It had been months since she last heard that voice. And for all of her strength as a psychic, a medium, she hadn't sensed him. That meant only one thing; he had gotten stronger, developing the ability to hide his malevolent spirit, his dark energy.

"Don't be so surprised," James called out. "After all," he said bringing a glass of brandy to his lips, "this isn't our first meeting."

Years ago Billie Dean had landed her own television show on Lifetime, bringing an end to her work on Craigslist. A future that seemed bright with promise soon darkened when she was cast to air her season finale at the infamous Hotel Cortez. Of course, she had done her homework; extensively she had researched the hotel's sordid past and became familiar with its owner, James Patrick March. If anything, his was a spirit she knew she would encounter, but how she would encounter him, she didn't know.

The minute her Louboutin's touched the carpet she felt his heavy presence and peered about the lobby, her eyes darting over every twist and turn, every darkened corner.

James had appeared almost instantly then. It couldn't be helped his coming to her like he did; her aura had just called to him, beckoning him in a way only a medium could. Cornering her, he demanded to know what the light he saw in her meant.

The shock at seeing him dressed in his rubber apron, gloves, and mask made her hesitate; the full fear of trying to touch his spirit, that darkness, made her lose her voice. When she regained control she took one look into his vacant eyes and uttered two words: go away. In the blink of an eye, James found himself in his old office, not knowing how or why he was there.

It took him three days to break the force of her command. Once he had, he sought her out with a vengeance.

" _All of this could have been avoided, Miss Howard," James told her as he cleaned the blood from his knife. Rising to his feet he stepped on, not over, her camera man. "Not only did you refuse to answer my simple inquiry, you tried to banish me. That, my dear, was a foolhardy mistake. A mistake that will cost you your life."_

 _When James took a threatening step forward, her hands flew up to ward him off. "Wait!" She pleaded. "L-let me... I'll tell you what the color of my aura means."_

" _Sadly your input is no longer needed as I have literature to teach me what I desire."_

" _It's f-false," she told him, stammering slightly. "Whatever book you have, it's false. I'm a real medium, James. I can tell you what it truly means, what they all mean." Pausing she forced herself to meet and hold his gaze. "I'll even teach you how to see them. Just don't... Don't kill me. Please."_

In exchange for sparing her life, she was forever at his beck and call. And yes, she had tried to banish him, numerous times in fact. It never worked again.

Squaring her shoulders Billie tore her eyes off the floor and turned to face him. While he was reclining comfortably before her white marble fireplace in a cream colored settee with a glass of brandy in hand, his once neat hair was now in slight disarray, tarnishing his picture-perfect facade.

As if knowing where her gaze had wandered, he raked his hair back into place with his fingers, silently daring her to speak of it.

"What is it that you need?" She asked firmly, eyeing the plethora of leather-bound books that littered her coffee table.

Taking another sip of his drink, James savored the slow burn down his throat as he ran his eyes over her. Just like Rosaline, Billie's aura was a shade of purple. But rather than violet or lavender, it was amethyst.

"I recall you telling me years ago," he began crossing one leg lazily over the other, "that with the exception of certain mystics, that a person only had one color to their soul."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she nodded her head. "That's correct."

"No, my dear," he snapped, making her flinch. "That most certainly is not correct!"

Seeing her frightened expression he became repentant. "Forgive me," he apologized, eyes blazing as he struggled to hold his temper in check. "I'm a bit...tense." It was only a few hours ago that he had killed that vomiting harlot and already his thirst for blood had risen.

Due to her gift as a medium, she could feel his acrimony; it hung around him, blanketing him in a thick fog. More than just bitterness there was a twinge of melancholy intermingled with regret and it flowed toward her, threatening to cut off her air supply. Staring at him as she was she had to wonder what had happened to him as she had never seen him in such a state. To be honest, it was rather unnerving.

"As much as I delight in gazing upon your loveliness, this evening would go much more smoothly if you took a seat."

"I'd rather stand."

James gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Had I been asking that statement would mean something to me." Holding out his hand, he motioned to the couch. "While I do enjoy your bits of fire trust me when I say, I am in no mood to be trifled with this evening. Now please," he growled. "Have a seat."

In a false display of supremacy, she took sweet time in obeying him.

Watching her like a hawk, James saw her shrug out of her black blazer and toss it on the couch beside his own as she made her way toward the bar. Clenching his jaw, he allowed his heated gaze to wander over her loose blonde hair and lower to the graceful curve of her back. Briefly, he imagined how her body would jerk if he were to ram his blade into her spine, silently debating whether or not she would be the type to gasp her last breath or make a choking grunt right before she keeled over.

"Would you like another shot of brandy?" She asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"No."

Peering over her shoulder, she saw the wicked gleam in his eyes and knew his thoughts were murderous. Silently she cursed herself; she knew better than to tempt him as she was.

Brow furrowed she reached out to him telepathically. White noise. There was no opening to him, no way to get inside his mind. Every emotion she had ever glimpsed in him had been revealed through his eyes just seconds before they disappeared or in frazzled bits of feeling, dark matter that floated toward her. Instantly she was reminded of another ghost of, Tate Langdon. Just like Tate, there was a darkness in March. Only if she had to compare it Tate would be considered a Saint; such a thought was beyond disturbing.

Turning back around, she quickly set down the gin and poured herself a triple shot of whiskey. This was going to be one hell of a night.

"Is your weak display of control over?"

"Is yours?" She fired back, momentarily forgetting herself. When his eyes flashed dangerously she knew that was the wrong thing to say. "I'm sorry," she stated quickly. Taking a deep breath, she took her seat across from him and schooled her features. "What would you like to discuss, James?"

"As you no doubt have noticed, I took full advantage of your library while you were gone. While I did acquire a bit of new information, nowhere in my search did I stumble upon any text or documentation of a soul being able to change its color. Not to darken it," he hurriedly added, "but to change it completely. So now I ask the great, Billie Dean, how can one go from a color such as, oh, I don't know, brown to black?"

Meditating on his question, she recalled to memory all she had learned throughout the years. "Such a change would result from outside forces."

"What kind of outside forces?" He inquired. "Are we speaking of the paranormal or the mundane?"

"The mundane," she answered, using his choice of language. "While the color brown can be dark, it is not at all malicious. I'm sure you know, as well as I, that brown is probably one of the kindest of all as it represents the earth; it's strong and dependable, carrying a placidity as it can blend with the most vibrant shades of nature and all its beauty. Just like nature someone with a brown aura can withstand man's cruelty and move forward forgiving it."

It took everything in him to not let his eye twitch at her words.

Continuing on, she said, "The reason why I said a soul is one color is because it's true. A normal soul, one that lacks psychic ability, is one color as its harboring the full intentions, nature, of the owner. In order for such a change to take place, it would require the total surrender of the spirit and mind." Pausing she took a sip of her whiskey. "For someone to go from a gentle brown to hardened black, they would have constantly endured tragic circumstances."

James had experienced tragic circumstances, too many of them to count. As for a total surrender, he had done just that so very long ago.

"After this conversion would the previous color still be present? Would there exist a memory, a shadow of the color, or perhaps some sort of divine seal of what was once there?" He inquired further.

"In my opinion, I would have to say no."

"No?" He drawled eyebrows rising to his hairline. A young, inexperienced mystic had called him out in no time at all. How could Billie not have seen or experienced something similar? "Don't tell me after all these years you're nothing more than a charlatan."

"If I were a charlatan I wouldn't have been able to banish you all those years ago," she retorted haughtily, all earlier fear leaving her.

As a tense silence drifted over them, Billie took it to mean that he was slowly plotting her demise. She couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, James was trying to figure out how Rosaline had done it. How had she looked at him and seen more? _How had she seen my past?_

Taking another sip of his brandy, he allowed his mind to race. _It was just once glance._ One long, steady glance and she had somehow reached the deepest part of him. Just a few more words from her and no doubt she would have discovered what had pushed him over the edge, what had changed his frame of mind all those years ago.

Chuckling dryly, he raised the glass to his lips. _If I didn't know any better, I would swear it was her gift._

James promptly choked on his liquor.

Sputtering he quickly removed his handkerchief and apologized. "Forgive me," he coughed into his handkerchief. "Terribly sorry for that."

Billie was rendered speechless. Never had she seen him choke on liquor. Being as he was from the prohibition era, she wondered if it was a form of sacrilege.

"When you gaze upon a person's aura all you see is the color, isn't it?" He asked after clearing his throat.

"That's right," she answered when he repeated his question once more.

"Hence never have you glimpsed into someone's past?"

Immediately her brow furrowed as she wondered where exactly this conversation was heading. "Of course not. That's not my gift."

Son of a gun his hunch had been right. That's why Rosaline had caught on so quickly; it _was_ her gift.

"Humor me," he told her, swirling the liquid around in his glass. "How many transcendent powers are there in the world?"

"As many as there are souls," she answered simply. "Not only ghosts, humans, and spiritualists exist in this world, James. There are witches, voodoo priestesses, zombies. Even a man by the man of, Papa Legba, who takes and frees souls from hell at will. Take a simple human being and add in the paranormal or divine and the combinations are endless."

Throughout the years at the Hotel Cortez James had seen a number of things such as murders, suicides, ruthless philanderers, and cheating spouses. Never, not even when he gained the ability to move past the hotel walls had he seen a zombie, witch or a shaman. Though he had gazed upon a vampire variant and an addiction demon. Those two sightings alone were more than enough for him to know that other things did in fact exist.

"Precisely what supernatural ability would allow someone to see an individual's aura as well as their past?"

There was no hesitation. "A psychometric."

"Go on," he commanded with a wave of his hand.

"In the simplest of terms, a psychometric can read anyone or anything's past by using their senses." Lifting her glass, she shook the amber liquid inside. "This is my glass and over there," she said pointing to his drink, "is another one of my glasses. A psychometric would be able to touch the glass you had been using and would gain the knowledge of its makers and users. He or she would know that though mine, it was gifted to me by my grandmother, that you used it, and the name and face of whoever else touched it during a dinner or party event."

"Would they have extensive knowledge?" He queried, fully enthralled by such a power.

Billie shook her head from side to side as if to say, not exactly. "If the person's power is well developed it can be possible, but it would require tremendous amounts of skill. Generally, the information will come to them in the matter that best suits the user such as a series of flashbacks, vivid night dreams that mirror movies, or for the more advanced daydreams."

"Why would daydreams be for the advanced?" He asked slightly confused.

"They are highly receptive," she answered. "Think of it this way, experiencing a series of flashbacks all at once means they have no true control, they can't block it out. Same with night dreams; the information received throughout the day comes to them in the form of dreams, without much effort. But to come in daydreams the receiver, the psychometric, is continuously processing information to the point where it's almost considered a..."

"An overload in stimulus," he interrupted, following along perfectly.

"Exactly." Brushing a blonde lock of hair back from her face, she said, "I've heard that they primarily will use the sense of touch or sight rather than all senses at once. Also, in order to refrain from sensory overload, they have to will it upon themselves to use their power more fully. Once the will is there they will see a general life history of the person or object. Though sometimes they will see more, quite possibly everything if they want the information bad enough."

James' lips parted in shock. _Well, I'll be damned._ All throughout their time at the café while Rosaline tried to focus he had silently baited her, becoming the driving force that pushed her, thus unlocking her gift.

Far from celebrating at this newfound discovery, he was left reeling. Not only had he left and discarded his jacket, but his cigarette case as well. How long had he had that case? More importantly, how many years had it been in his family? One touch, one desire from Rosaline to know more about the man who had abandoned her and she would know absolutely everything about him.

Silently Billie regarded James with a look of the utmost surprise. Not only had his eyes lightened, but he appeared to be torn between wonder and misery. "You've met one, haven't you?"

Not bothering to answer her question he asked one of his own instead. "What about a slightly two-toned aura? Violet and lavender. What does that mean?"

"Lavender?" Billie repeated her eyes growing wide.

James gave her a curt nod.

"Describe it to me."

Setting his glass down he twirled his sapphire ring around his finger trying to find the words. Just as Billie made to repeat her question, he spoke. "Like ice," he admitted, voice lowering, softening as he went along. "Similar to how an iceberg will hold a light cerulean tinge, this shade of lavender was in much the same way. It stemmed from the violet at her core and flowed out, spilling forth into the sunlight. Yet when the sun shined down upon it the color grew lighter, blending into the gold, appearing almost..." James trailed off at her stunned expression. Truth be told he didn't even think she was aware that her drink was spilling, staining her couch.

For a moment she didn't know what was so shocking, the rich brown hue of eyes, the silky tone of voice, or the fact that he had seen something so rare.

"What are you withholding from me?" He asked suddenly, sitting straighter in his seat.

Not oblivious, but uncaring, she rose from her seat and took her now empty glass over to the bar to refill it. Pouring a double, she downed her glass in record time, gasping at the intense sting. "If this... It this person is a future kill, you'll be thwarted at every turn," she promised.

Peering over her shoulder, she looked at him her eyes boring into his own. "Just as there are demons there are pure spirits too. I've never seen a... White auras are not sought after because they are said to be for God, for Christ. As sure as demons have the darkest, blackest, diseased rotting spirits, angels are pure light; silver and... golden. While it is true that all mystics have a shade of purple, lavender... A light shade of lavender that blends with the light, that's a sign of a pure spirit."

"What are you implying?" James asked, rising from his seat. He most certainly was not going to entertain the idea that Rosaline was some damned angel, especially when he had never seen one himself. "Am I to believe that a simple woman is to possess a pure soul?" he questioned mockingly. "Let me guess, is she to be the next Immaculate Conception? Or a great winged seraph in disguise?!"

"Believe me, James," Billie spat, "had an angel seen you, your soul would be banished to the deepest levels of hell. Whoever this woman is she's not an angel, nor a pure spirit herself. Lavender means she's guarded."

In the blink of an eye, he moved to stand before her. Lowering himself so that they were eye level, he commanded, "Tell me everything. **Now.** "

"Lavender spirits are guarded individuals. It will be mistaken by them, by everyone, that they are street smart, a person who follows their instincts. That's not the case." Pausing she took in a deep, shaky breath. Staring deep into his eyes she said, "They are not guarded by themselves, but protected by others of a higher power."

Clenching his jaw so tight a muscle flexed he tilted his head to the side, regarding her with dead eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that...?" He couldn't continue. Though possible the idea was absolutely preposterous to him.

For the first time in their history, Billie smiled at him; it was filled with so much wicked glee that it made her eyes shimmer like the dawn. "Just as Sally has her addiction demon who was brought forth by her pain, this woman will have a warrior of her own. Only he won't be evil, but a Godsend. Literally. Like I said, James, if you want her dead you'll be thwarted at every turn."

"How is such a thing possible?" He demanded, fury rising.

"I'm sure you've lived in that hotel long enough to know that the impossible becomes possible. This is beyond your control, James."

Rising to his full height he stared down his nose at her. "Nothing," he said voice slipping into a monotone, "is beyond my control."

"Divine Providence is beyond everyone's control.

* * *

Now we are getting to the heart of the story. Did you like my mentions from past seasons? Please leave a review!


	7. What Was Forgotten Has Now Been Recalled

**Author's Note:** 23 pages. Over 10, 000 words. New characters and a surprise. Eat. Your. Heart. Out. For the character whose name starts with a V, you can envision Alexander Skarsgard. Enjoy!

* * *

 **What Was Forgotten, Has Now Been Recalled**

As the doors slid open Liz Taylor stepped out of the elevator and into perdition. The eighth floor of the hotel held James' most famed design: a maze; a jumbled series of long, winding corridors and carpeted floorboards, with images of doors and windows painted on the walls; painted in such great detail that no matter how many times she ventured down there she was always fooled by its realism. Truth be told there was only one working door on the floor which led to a torture chamber. But more than that, this floor held a large number of ghostly inhabitants, all of them trapped in their own personal hell.

Sauntering down the hallway Liz tried her best to ignore the telltale chill in the air and the echoing screams that seemed to make the walls pulsate.

Old and new blood stained the carpet, claw marks—from past victims—and bullet holes governed the walls. It didn't matter that she had lived in the hotel for decades or that she befriended a number of ghosts, this floor… This floor was never one she could get used to. Part of which because of the stories, the softly spoken whispers about a demon.

Eyeing the great jagged arcs that shredded the wall as though it were tissue paper, she felt her heartbeat quicken. Never had she laid eyes on the Addiction Demon that the ghosts spoke of—and Sally raged about—but many knew of its existence. Only they remembered bits and pieces such as sharp, gnashing teeth, the scent of rotting flesh, blood, and erratic movement, along with a darkness so deep that it became tangible.

"S-someone help me!"

That was not an echoing scream of the dead, but a desperate cry from the living.

Slowly Liz took her smokey-eyed gaze off the dingy tiffany light fixtures from up above.

For the past two months, a new kind of energy swept into the Hotel Cortez. People—odd yet riveting individuals—who contained a spark, a special something that Liz couldn't quite name, made their way into the hotel. Like a breath of fresh air they called to those around them, all ghosts, humans, and demon alike, and moved through the hotel like a crisp auburn leaf in the Fall, going wherever the wind, James, led them.

"I've heard awful things about this hotel."

Inhaling sharply Liz whirled around. Immediately she caught sight of one of those oddly peculiar beings. She, Robin, was number three. Liz remembered her because she had given her a pitying glance. Much to her surprise, Robin had merely smiled in return. Only the smile had touched Liz's soul.

" _Don't pay any attention to the help, Robin. Especially that one over there," James instructed, tugging on her arm while he gave Liz a hard glare. "What she lacks for in decorum she more than makes up for in witty quips. I, for one, am in no mood to hear them, much less to be on the receiving end of such a bold first glance." That was James subtle, yet forceful way of telling Liz to lower her eyes, to not break Robin from his spell by scaring her too early in the game. Simply put, Liz couldn't help herself; there was an innocence about Robin that had Liz wanting to warn her._

 _Ever mindful of James threat, Liz took a drag of her cigarette and dipped her head, eyes lowering to her book, the words a jumbled mess on the page. The feelings of misfortune were still there, only now it was tinged with regret. Regret for remaining silent._

"I've heard awful things about this hotel," Robin repeated once more, her red locks falling over her shoulders as fear began its slow dance upon her features.

The spirit stepped forward making Liz take a quick step back. While Liz had befriended her share of ghosts throughout the years, she knew better than to meddle with ones who were stuck; they could be the most volatile, turning without warning and raising holy hell once they were freed from their bonds. Plastering her back to the wall Liz waited for the spirit to move, to flee once the next portion of her death cycle caught up with her.

It was riveting, to say the least.

All but glued to the wall, Liz watched in rapt fascination as the ghost, Robin, relived her death.

Robin came forward, eyeing the door at the end of the hallway with a furrowed brow, her rosebud mouth puckering as her thoughts ran wild. It occurred to Liz that Robin was listening to someone as her gaze wasn't fully centered on what was taking place before her. Every once in a while she would nod or give a slight shake of her head. Perhaps James had taunted her. Or maybe, just maybe, he questioned her. But that was absurd. Though James was a sick fuck, to say the least, he didn't question those he tortured but taunted them. Yet that went right out the window as Robin continued to nod, giving softly spoken replies such as, "Yes, that's correct." "Since I was twelve years old, but It comes and goes." "Darkness? It's quite a …heavy…here. Very…heavy."

That last statement was the catalyst sending a sinking feeling to invade Liz's stomach and her heart to leap into her throat.

"Aw, come on," Liz muttered under her breath after precious minutes had ticked by. Gazing at James's door as well as the ghost before her, she had a terrifying thought: did the woman die here, right here?! Was that why Robin wasn't moving? If so, Liz was in the way and needed to move. Now.

"Now that I really think of it," Robin began once more, interrupting Liz's train of thought and runner's stance, "there has been a number of murders at this hotel. Many of which I've read about on the web." She paused, shaking her head wildly, disbelief showing in her eyes. "I promised to never set foot in this hotel. I would never come here knowing that my gift…" She trailed off, glancing over her shoulder. "How did you lead me here?" Fully enraptured, Liz looked to the side as though James would appear at any second to answer her question.

Robin backed away fearfully, hands shaking as she held them up. "I wouldn't have come here on my own! Why didn't I sense you? H-how could I not have known that you're… you're…James Patrick—"

"Oh thank the stars above!" Liz exclaimed when Robin turned on her heel and ran down the hall.

Vowing to have a shot of Patron once this business was over, Liz pushed away from the wall and hurried toward the door, her blue couture gown defying gravity and soaring high into the air.

Ignoring the shouts for help that came from within Liz paused at the door and regained composure, knocking twice.

"I-is someone there?!" A weak voice called. "Help me! Please! I t-think he's gone—I don't know when h-he'll come b-back. Please help me. PLEASE!"

The door flew open.

Before James' blocked her sight, Liz had just enough time to witness the look of horror and surprise in the victim's eyes. _Hell, James was probably beside her the whole time. Sick bastard._ Taking her eyes off the unfortunate soul in the background, she turned her attention to James who was dressed for the kill in his rubber apron, gloves, and mask.

Words didn't need to be spoken to know of his displeasure, she could feel it coming off him in waves.

"Need I remind you of what the penalty is for interrupting me while I am working?" He questioned, his voice slightly muffled by the mask but not lacking in ferocity.

Clasping her hands together she gave a slight shake of her head. "Not at all, Mr. March. I am aware that the penalty is a _slow_ and _painful_ death. However, I am a messenger and at the request of John to _seek you out_ ," she sang in that tenor, that playful, saucy manner in which only she could.

Licking her nude lips, she dipped her hip, eyes fluttering in mischief as she added, "Apparently he's finished his assignment and is waiting for _you_ to call _him_. And I quote, 'information comes at a price. If you want what you've requested you'll need to tell a tale of your own.'" Seeing the startling flash of rage reflected through the dark lenses of his mask she pulled back. "But again," she said with a tight-lipped smile, holding up her hands in a sign of peace, "I'm just a messenger." _And there's no need to shoot this messenger_ , she silently added.

With slow, deliberate movements, James reached behind him and undid the buckle for the lower portion of his mask.

"Liz, while you are no doubt my wife's fondest…" He trailed off, looking her up and down as he searched for the right word. "…creation, you and I have had our moments, agreed?"

Though they could fight and bicker like cats and dogs, James was both direct and charismatic. It was hard not to like him upon occasion. "Agreed."

"And yet," he began, rubbing at the sliver of exposed flesh at his brow, "it is not enough to make _me_ overly fond of _you_." He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. Of course, they had the desired effect; Liz lowered her gaze to his chest and though she tried her very best, she could not hide her tremor.

Smiling James continued on saying, "Throughout the ages, messengers have been killed, not just for being the bearers of bad news, but for their wayward tongues and ill-timed jocularity. They, like _you_ , believed that simply because they were not the ones responsible for the unwanted report, that they could speak freely, humorously, and all would be well. How foolish a notion!

"One can never make bad news acceptable and a smile," he drawled, lowering his head until she was forced to look at his face, "well, a smile can make one become unpleasant, vicious even." Reaching out he ran a gloved finger along the smooth curve of her scalp and tucked an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear. "Be advised that I do have more than one table available for torture in this establishment," he threatened, his voice a beautiful nightmare, dark, deep, and positively frightening. "So the next time you play the role of messenger refrain from adding any and all unnecessary theatrics, and deliver the message and be done with it." He curled a finger under her chin, lifting her so that their eyes met. "Do I make myself clear, Miss Taylor?"

"Crystal."

James gave her a boyish smile. Only Liz could make the correct response of crystal sound like a 'fuck you, asshole.' Only Liz could get away with it.

"Excellent! You may take your leave then, _dear messenger_ ," he sang, slamming the door in her face.

Uttering a few choice curses in her mind she made her way back to the elevator.

"Out of all the hotels to visit before you were reborn, this had to be the one," she spoke aloud, rolling her eyes at her blunder.

Just as she was about to turn the final corner, a voice rang out from behind. "I've heard awful things about this hotel."

"Jesus Christ!"

Once more she was face to face with the ghost from before. Only this time Robin was starting to remember. Rooted in place Liz watched in horror as the glaze slowly receded from the woman's eyes. "I've heard many things about this hotel," Robin stated, voice growing stronger as she was no longer running through the motions.

 _Oh, hell no!_

Instantly Liz thought of another ghost, of a rotund woman who had committed suicide years ago. The ghost poisoned the water supply for the entire floor—on a daily basis—and killed whoever stepped foot into her room. And that was a spirit who died by their own hand. She didn't even want to think about what a tortured soul would do!

Hands up, palms out, Liz began to back away slowly. "Easy now, honey. Don't do anything rash. Come out of it slowly."

Raw anger flashed in those dove grave eyes. "You… _killed_ …me."

Liz stopped dead in her tracks, giving the ghost an 'oh no the hell you didn't!' look. As if being murdered by a spirit wasn't bad enough, she was going to be mistaken for March as well!

"Hold on a minute, Casper," Liz sassily retorted, waving her finger in the air. "I am not Mr. March."

Robin bawled her tiny hands into fists, the rage inside of her growing. "You. Killed. Me!" She spat taking a threatening step forward, her anger like an electric charge.

Stumbling in her heels Liz hit the wall. "No, I'm not! I'm not Mr. March!"

"You brought me here to die," Robin screamed, not hearing her. "You tricked me. You told me you needed my help, but you brought me here to die! And you—you're not…" Robin broke off, eyes glazing slightly.

Taking full advantage of the spirits distraction, Liz turned tail and ran like the wind.

No sooner had she rounded the corner and taken her first full sprint when Robin appeared in front of her.

The wind was knocked out of Liz when they collided. Robin may have been a tiny thing, but running into her was like slamming into a brick wall. Stumbling back Liz fell on her ass, clutching at her chest as she gasped for breath.

"I was tortured for days!" An unholy light flashed in Robin's eyes, an eerie purple flash, almost like a bolt of lightning.

Scrambling back on her hands, Liz tried to put distance between them.

It was quite obvious that this spirit was a force to reckon with and Liz was not taking a hit, a blood thirsty kill for March. "I'm not James March, I'm Liz. Liz Taylor," she continued still backing away, her butt dragging along the carpet, arms shaking too much to push herself up to her feet. "And just between you and me, honey, I'm much better than my namesake!"

The corners of Robin's lips twitched and Liz stopped dead in her tracks.

"Well, I'll be damned," Liz breathed. Robin was fighting back a smile. Hope began to bloom in Liz's heart. But before it could blossom in all its beauty, it was torn out of her. A thick film trickled over Robin's eyes once more, a silent warning that the death haze was returning.

To Liz's knowledge, she had never known a ghost to come in and out of a trance such as this. Generally, they were either stuck or living, well, as alive as they could be given the circumstances. For some unknown reason, Robin was moving between two worlds.

"Murderer," Robin hissed, taking a step forward, her oval face tight with anger. "James Patrick March is a murder!"

Liz lost her breath.

Robin wasn't stuck. Granted she was livid, her rage wasn't directed at Liz, but at… James.

"Uh, tell me something, Robin," she sang with a smile though she was scared shitless inside. "Are you _aware_ of what's going on right now?"

Red hair flew forward as Robin gave a forceful nod of her head. "Yes."

"I'll be damned."

"You are," Robin spoke matter-of-factly. "All of you are. Everyone in this hotel is—" Scratching sounded. Together they looked down the hallway, Liz tilting her head to the side to peer around Robin.

Crouched down in the distance—not on the floor but the ceiling—was a cosmic being.

Despite the distance that separated them, Liz could see every detail perfectly. The celestial being was in the form of a man with smooth alabaster skin, free of imperfection, his body willowy yet strong, muscles rolling underneath the flesh with every movement he made. Unbound and defying gravity his chartreuse blonde hair fell in long, luxurious waves brushing over well-toned shoulders, begging not to be touched, but to be gazed upon in reverence.

Still there was something more about him, something in his air, an innate grace that was as much feral as it was dignified that held her captive.

As he raked his talons back and forth along the ceiling, bits of plaster chipped away and fell to the floor.

Rising to her feet Liz stared at the being mesmerized. "What are you?"

The scratching continued. Rather than mindless scratch-scratch-scratching, it was melodic. Every nerve ending went off at once until Liz felt dizzy and breathless, body and mind buzzing.

As though sensing her pleasure Liz heard a velvety rich chuckle. Immediately her eyes fluttered shut as she was pulled into ecstasy. When her eyes opened moments later she saw Robin from the corner of her eye. Robin was so far gone that the stars had entered her eyes and a dark purple glow surrounded her.

As beautiful a sight as the ghost made she paled in comparison to the being who was still crouched on the ceiling, its head bent, face blocked from view.

"What are you?" Liz asked in breathless anticipation. "Are you an angel?"

The harmonious scratching came to an abrupt halt.

"No."

Liz exhaled with a gasp and dropped to her knees. Words could not describe the tone of voice. Like a mighty ocean wave, it crashed over her, only to warm her like a fire, and charm her like a splendid sunset all at the same time.

"I am no _angel_." It didn't even occur to her that the being had spat the word 'angel' as though it were foul, leaving a bitter rotten taste in its mouth.

Knowing that walking would be impossible, Liz crawled forward on her hands and knees, gaze rooted to the being in awe. "Then what are you?"

"What am I?" At that, he lifted its head. He was classically beautiful with a straight nose, strong jawline, thick brows, full lips, and sharp, bewitching amber eyes that were more maroon than golden brown. Greater than his beauty was his aura; it was purely salacious.

"I am Valon, the Hunter."

A shudder ran through Liz making her moan. Biting her lower lip, she peered at him through her lashes. "And what is it that you hunt, Valon?" Liz could care less about who, or what he hunted. She just wanted him to speak, _needed_ him to speak. Nothing else mattered, just this being, his eyes on her body, and that… voice.

"What you mistook me for," he answered, smiling to reveal straight white teeth that gleamed in the low light. "Along with other things." Swiftly he blinked, focus shifting to Robin, the maroon in his eyes becoming more prominent as he took her in.

Pleased Valon bit his lower lip. A bright ruby red bead appeared, a stark contrast against his pale skin and Liz watched as the ruby teardrop fell, heading toward the floor only to stop mid-flight and rise up and hit the ceiling with a sizzle.

"Robin Fitzgerald," he purred, red flashes going off in his eyes. "I've been waiting for you. Waiting for you to die so that I may journey ahead and stake my claim." Bemused Robin stared at him not understanding his words in the slightest. "Greif held you back," he continued on, "made you a prisoner and kept your gift dormant, surging forth only when you lost your way."

Inhaling sharply, Robin took a step back.

How could he have known of her life? No one… knew. Raised by a single father, she had a happy childhood. But growing into a woman… Fatal heartbreaks and ghostly encounters had come, sending her mind spiraling out of control until she was labeled clinically insane.

"It never ceases to amaze me the depth of loneliness that you mortals feel. You believe that life has no meaning, no purpose, yet you succumb so quickly to fleeting emotions." He inhaled deeply, groaning with satisfaction at the discomfort he caused her. "Like a dark melody your misery calls to me, Robin, reminding me of war and famine. Futility and desperation." He tilted his head to the side, eyes dancing with merriment. "It pleases me to know that death has made the feelings of helplessness in you stronger, turning your heartrending song into a wicked symphony that begs for a blue encore. Shall I be your conductor?" He inquired huskily, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Teach you a song that has a beginning but no end."

Every fiber of her being screamed that his offer was nothing but a lie.

"No. I want nothing to do with you."

An electric charge shot through the room, followed by a scorching heat.

Still smiling, Valon peered at her like she was a disease-ridden insect. "I expected such a response," he told her plainly, as though bored with her and their conversation. "After all, mystics take the traits of their Guardian and yours," he went on to say thickly, "was as weak as he was foolish."

With a sigh he shook his head, giving her a glance that was as gleeful as it was demonic. "Such a transgression is unforgivable. Come," he bid to her. "Let me see if you are as delectable as Aemilianus was all those millennia ago."

At the mention of her guardian's name, Aemilianus, a floodgate opened.

Never had Robin seen or known of him, but now she felt terror. Tasted pain. And promptly choked on the tears of a grief she hadn't known she carried. _Aemilianus_ , her soul whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. Immediately she saw ocean blue eyes and white blonde hair. Felt a fierce love and protection, which was only called to memory by the seal engraved on her soul. _Aemilianus._

Feet still firmly planted on the ceiling Valon stood to his full height, Liz's mouth falling open at the sight of his bare, chiseled frame. It couldn't be helped. Valon and his offers were a temptation. Lust in its truest form.

" _Come to me,"_ Valon commanded of Robin.

The tiffany light fixtures began to flicker.

Drawn like a moth to a flame Robin moved toward Valon, her feet gliding across the carpet, his words, hypnotic pull, too powerful to resist. With every step the color of her aura became more prominent. Thickening until it became tangible.

If only she knew that the seal on her soul was the last piece of Aemilianus and that it could have been used to help her. Perhaps then she would have run, or, at least, had the good sense to fight. To use her power as a psychic and call out to her guardian along with every spirit in the building—good and bad—to aid her, to fight alongside her against Valon. Maybe, just maybe she would have had a chance for survival.

Using the wall for support, Liz rose to her feet. A rabid form of envy tricked along her spine ensnaring her heart like a vice. Every fiber of her being wanted Valon. And he wanted Robin. A cold, dead, corpse. A phantom. It was too much to bear.

"You fucking bitch!" Liz roared tormented. "I swear to God if you weren't dead, I would rip your heart out and eat it!"

A stinging pain interrupted her cries.

The once smooth skin of her arms and scalp were now littered with dozens of half-moon crescents and jagged scrapes, her gown ripped, makeup smeared. Stunned at the sight of her own blood in her hands, she was gifted with a moment of clarity. _What...what is this? What have I done?_

Tears stinging her eyes, she raised her head just in time to see Robin take the last step needed to meet Valon.

Valon's height was so great that he was face to stomach with Robin. To meet her gaze, he would need to bend his knees, however, Valon had too much pride to fall to his knees for anyone. So it was Robin who dropped to the floor. Valon extended his arm, hand wrapping around her throat to lift her just so that they stared into each other's eyes, neither saying a word.

How could either woman have known that a massacre, a desecration of one's soul was about to take place?

The overhead lights flickered above them once, twice, a third time as Robin gave the first of what was to be many screams. Shaking head to toe Liz moved away, leaving a bloody smear of along the wall with her hand. Just before she lost the contents of her stomach and the lights went out completely, Liz saw Valon's true form.

Darkness covered them all.

Something thick and warm splattered across Liz's face. The taste and smell like that of copper; it was absorbed on her palate and hung thick in the air. Bright flashes of red and purple calling out to her like a beacon. For just a second she thought the caught sight of a golden ray, but it was so muted she couldn't be certain.

Guttural screams and mocking laughter followed, one right after the other until she felt her flesh crawl. Soon the screams began to lower, fading into groans and the laughter to deep rumbles. That dark purple lessened, losing its color to morph into gray and finally into black as the red, grew brighter, hotter with every passing second.

The lights flickered on and Liz stared at Valon in all his glory.

Frightened she shook like a leaf, tears streaming down her cheeks at the sight of flesh clinging to his hair, blood dripping from his now massive canines. It had never occurred to her that a soul could bleed. Be torn apart. That it could perish.

"Your threats of violence humor me." Incisors lengthening, Valon leaned down and kissed her forehead, nipping at her skin and tearing into it.

Liz sunk to the ground, her mouth wide open, frozen in a silent scream as her stomach churned, blood running over her eyes.

Right before she hit the floor, her mind imploded. It was such an intense form of pain. It felt like someone was clawing at her brain, pulling it apart only to rearrange it. Quickly as it began, it ended.

Blinking languidly Liz stared straight ahead. There was no sign of the carnage that took place. No blood on her hands or cuts on her body. No tears in her dress, a brush stroke of her makeup was out of place. Not a trace of fear lingering in her heart or mind.

"I'm far too much of a delight to put up with this," she drawled, watching as a phantom, a homeless man, ran past her only to fall and roll about on the floor, putting out imaginary flames. "It's settled. Patron with salt and lime on ice, Netflix and…chill." Chuckling to herself she sauntered toward the elevator.

As Liz pressed the button for her floor, she stared straight ahead, not seeing Valon who stood before her licking the last bit of Robin's blood and ectoplasm from his claws.

"Cheap ass hotel," she muttered, hitting the button again in frustration. Grinning, Valon snapped his fingers, the elevator surging to life.

As the doors slid closed she leaned against the walls, eyeing her manicure with a furrowed brow. "What is—is that blood?" Instantly she remembered James touching her head with his gloves. Confusion turning to disgust she let out a curse. "Fucking March. I outta shove those gloves up his ass!"

A throaty chuckle pierced her ears, only her mind couldn't process it correctly, turning the deep guffaws into a whisper of the wind.

Oblivious to Valon's laughter, Liz continued to snicker and rub at the ruby red dot on her nail. Not once did she see the eyes of the being who stared at her through the door. Elevator rising, she continued to remain ignorant of the demon, the fallen angel, who watched her go, who _let_ her go.

* * *

There are so many unknowns about the afterlife and its inhabitants. So many mysteries about time and how it can slow down in one plain, and speed up in another. Blind, deaf, and dumb to what has taken place within his very hotel, James made his way further into his torture chamber. He paid no attention to the woman that was shackled at the wrist, dangling from the ceiling and forced to stand on tiptoe, barely able to hold her weight for much longer. If anything, his irritation was at an all-time high thanks to Liz and his pupil's message.

"Please," she, Tonya was her name, begged. "Please let me go." Tonya was now on the brink of death, having nearly bled herself dry. "I-I-I have a c-child. P-please, don't do t-this."

Unlike the others, Tonya had sensed and responded to his pain. Only it wasn't his rehearsed verse she had glimpsed, but the true sorrow that was hidden deep within himself. An empath is what she was.

A sickening pop sounded from behind him.

Dislocation of her wrist. Another pop sounded. Her other wrist had lost the fight.

"If the wellbeing of your child was truly your concern," he told her, voice rising to be heard above her screams, "then you wouldn't have abandoned him to tend to me. Now that, my dear, makes your words false and you a liar as well as a disappointment!"

All of them were disappointments. None of the mystics held even a tinge of gold or possessed lavender in their aura. Worse than that their powers seemed to come and go at random.

Rubbing at his brow he ignored the weeping woman and stared down at the notes he had made.

Like a scholar, he peered over them and the well-worn manuscripts at their side. Not a single one of them could fight—with their gifts—or summon a guardian. Hell, to his knowledge the Addiction Demon wasn't even interested in them, merely looked them over and left, moving on to his own sick devices, whatever they were.

"…he's only f-five," she carried on once more. "P-please. H-he'll be all alone…"

Bits of skull, brain and blood splattered across the walls.

Setting down the pistol, he removed the rest of his mask, disposing of the goggles and headpiece beside the gun.

"Miss Evers!"

"Yes, Mr. March—oh my, what a marvelous mess you've made for me!" She praised. Coming closer she took in what was left of the woman's head. "This little ditty was quite the screamer. Heard her all the way in the washroom, I did."

"Please tend to this for me. And do keep it down," he instructed, knowing she liked to whistle while she worked. "I'll be making an important call in the next room."

"Certainly, sir! My lips are sealed!" Giddy at her new task, she set out muttering something about bleach, detergent, and…oxygen.

Crossing the large cement floors, he stepped into a side room, which was all carpet and leather, a respite in-between killings.

Placing a Benny Goodman record on, he eyed the gold cigarette case beside it with disdain. Rosaline never kept the case. All of his possessions had been left exactly where he had abandoned them. There was no note left behind by Rosaline or even a word mentioned in passing to the café owners on her behalf.

Of course, he had sought her out, called to apologize. Rosaline had accepted his apology yet denied his invitation for further contact, stating, _"I'll be given new assignment soon. I won't have time for much else, but thank you for asking. Goodbye, James."_ Though it was hard he took her words, her dismissal, as graciously as he could manage and wished her well.

Placing a cigarette between his lips he lit a match, breathing the tobacco deep into his nonexistent lungs.

Using her dismissal to his advantage, he had taken to studying her kind. Night after night, day after day, he would walk the earth waiting for a mystic to call out to him. On a good day, he tortured them extensively, waiting for some sort of divine intervention, some unseen hand to stop him. It never came.

On a bad day, he took the first fake he could find and set them loose within his walls on the eighth floor and bid the Addiction Demon to chase them.

As for books, he was versed in Latin, knew bits of Greek, but the main ones were all in ancient Aramaic and undecipherable to him. Even with that stopping him he knew the story wasn't going to change, that the rules were always the same: that good was against evil and both parties hated each other with a passion that could not be conceived by mortals. Though still the question had to be asked: why did Rosaline have a guardian and he able to control a demon? Granted the demon was sickly sweet on Sally, it truly belonged to him. Better yet, why, even with all that has transpired, did he continue to yearn for Rosaline?

Inhaling plumes of white smoke, he lifted the receiver of the black rotary phone on his desk and called a number he knew by heart.

"Hello, March."

"John, my boy!" James greeted with eagerness. "I received word from a dubious creature that you have something for me. Better yet, I hear you want an exchange of information."

"That's correct. If you want my intel, you tell me about my wife or your dreams for my murderous future will be just that."

A tense silence passed between them.

"Precocious," James said at last. "I'd expect nothing less from my star pupil. Very well, you've twisted my arm, but know that baiting me like this again can cause a possible rift between us." He paused a second before adding, "and I would hate, absolutely detest for something unfortunate to befall you."

"I understand," John returned smoothly. "This will be the first and the last time."

"Superb."

The two men were carved from the same mold. Each one took the others words in a silence, processing the news internally, mentally calculating the steps they would need to take to reach their own private goals. When all was said and done, John was going to have a much-needed talk with his wife about her new found virus and their son Holden. As for March…

Unseen Valon stared at James.a moment or two before reaching out to place a finger on his brow.

Every memory, every second of life, death, and haunting that James had experienced came to Valon's mind. Finger still on James, Valon saw Rosaline as though she were in the flesh before him. A ghost of a smile came to his lips.

Believe it or not, she was to be _his_ charge. That was until the rebellion came. Until war broke out, choices were made, and he found himself falling… Seething he pulled back his hand with a snarl.

Released from his hold James continued on as though nothing had transpired, and in his mind, nothing had.

"Cease in your superfluous actions of study and go after her."

The book that James had been holding fell out of his grasp and onto the floor. Coming around to face him Valon stared into James' eyes, his own a bright and fiery red.

It disgusted him. Enraged him. Every pull, interaction with James, caused a bit of his obsession and lust to spill over, creating a deeper hunkering for Rosaline to form in the ghost. While it infuriated him, he couldn't kill him. Not yet. Rosaline's guardian, though second and ill-equipped in Valon's eyes, was truly a fearsome thing to behold. As such, Valon couldn't even stare into her direction without arousing the guardians suspicion and throwing themselves headfirst into battle.

Far worse was the natural chemistry between his old charge and this...ghost. All on his own James had found Rosaline, their feelings growing, attraction morphing, making her power slip. It was enough for Valon to take notice. Now that he had, he was going to use it to his full advantage.

Promising to savagely tear out all traces of Rosaline from James the second the moment came, he crept closer.

Even though Valon's heart was gone and soul nonexistence, he still remembered how things worked. "Evil, all traces of it sicken a spirit, an angel, yet propels them into action. To slip in undetected you will need to show your humanity. As such, I will test it along with your courage. Just as before in the Mansion, I will creep forward to cause peril and you," he whispered into his ear, "will save her." Low and behold, it was not James who had terrified her that day, but Valon. Needing to get James inside, Valon had taken it upon himself to startle her, to strike fear into her soul. Naturally her guardian came to her rescue and the two foes had fought, allowing James to slip in and garner her interest.

Pausing Valon raked back James' hair, growing envious when he saw the way Rosaline admired it in his mind. "You shall push aside your bloodlust and show her your flippant, boyish charm. Make no mistake, boy," he fiercely stated, fisting James locks in an iron grip as his words embedded into his being. "If you cross me, if you _have_ what is _mine_ , I will make your suffering in Hell legendary. For it won't end with the Second Coming, but will last…forever."

* * *

Standing at the top of the scaffold gave one the illusion that there were at heaven's door. Head tilted back, Rosaline stared up at the sky, her midnight eyes determined to pierce the silver veil that the clouds had created. As she stared her heartbeat slowed, mind growing calm as a stillness set in. Soon the talk of men and work of heavy machinery faded into oblivion, leaving her with this specular view, this moment of peace in a chaotic world.

As a child, her Abuela had told her stories. Saying that every time a silvery beam of light appeared a guardian angel had touched down upon the earth. Of course, such stories sent her mind a flight and even now as an adult it was hard to break away from that memory. So Rosaline stood there waiting for a silver veil to break, for a cosmic beam of light to emerge. Waiting for an angel to show itself.

"Shit, can someone tell this fuckin' bitch that it's going to rain so I can get the hell out of here?"

Immediately Rosaline was pulled out of her trance.

Not bothering to turn around, she tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and said, "Tell me, Rosso, when did you find time to study to become a meteorologist? Was it around the same time I completed my degree?" Not giving him time to respond, she peered over her shoulder, lips curving into a smile as her eyes bore into his own. "If so, I would love to know how the words 'overcast' and 'partly cloudy' translate into rain."

David Rosso narrowed his green eyes into slits. It was no surprise to anyone that they detested one another. Rosso was a hard man for anyone to like, but Rosaline saw something in him that made her keep a close eye on him. And when he thought he could fool her, throw a less than charming smile her way and escape his duties early, she hadn't hesitated to put him in his place. Needless to say, they were forever at each other's throats.

"That's what I thought," she said when he remained silent. Snapping her eyes up to the other two works who flocked around him she stated, "Breaks over. Get back to work."

A chorus of, "Fuckin', Rosso" and "You stupid bastard" was groaned out of the men.

Truth be told, they all liked Rosaline. Of course, they gave her a hard time, in the beginning, pushed her buttons, but she knew her job and performed it well. Most importantly, she had no problem pushing right back.

"Oh, another thing, Rosso." The man froze, shoulders tensing up. For a minute she thought he would walk away, acting as though he didn't hear her, but to her surprise, he turned around, all two hundred pounds of muscle and plaid.

"What?" He growled barely able to keep the loathing from his voice.

Arching a brow over his tone, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The man was like a child. "Earlier today you removed your hard-hat when you took your cigarette break. Need I remind you that you are over a thousand feet in the air and that taking such an action can have deadly consequences?"

Determine to argue, he snapped back, "Either way a hard-hat wouldn't save my ass from splattering like a watermelon."

"No, but God willing you land on steel pipe or a wooden landing instead. If such an event occurred you'll soon wish you had been wearing one." Ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes, she went on. "Don't let it happen again, Rosso. This is your last warning."

"Yes, _Sir_ ," he drawled, hands fisted at his side.

Rosaline gave him a breathtaking smile. "Good. I'm glad you know who's in charge here. You can go now, your dismissed."

A few snorts and guffaws escaped from the men and women who were listening. "Man, fuck yall!" Rosso barked, making them laugh even harder.

"Awe, Rosso," Arthur sang in his thick Irish accent, "don't you know that every Rose has its thorn!" At that, even Rosaline couldn't hold back her smirk.

Muttering curses under his breath, Rosso flipped the older man the bird and walked back to his section, pulling on his gloves as he did so.

Like Billie Dean had mentioned, psychometrics will use two of five senses sight and touch. Rosaline, however, could easily switch between all five. The only pity was that she wasn't aware of it.

Upon first glance, she knew which contractors and construction workers had slacked on their job. With a single brush of her fingertips knew the make and model of the tools and products used, could literally hear that the soil was tainted, beams weak, or scent a cheap cement mixture. Rather than seeing her ability for the gift it truly was, she took it to be a highly developed skill for she never went on a hunch alone, but saw all them through to completion, contacting agencies, vendors, and companies until she had the answers she sought.

Granted she primarily dealt with day to day inspections, Rosaline did oversee larger projects from time to time, which led her to the Wilson skyscraper. It was to be the first of its kind. Steel beams and glass stood tall and proud, twisting at the last minute to form a geometric floret, a black and gold blossom. Simple in its design yet visually stunning, the Wilson was already making its mark in Los Angeles with its beautiful shape alone. The fact that it would rival all others in the area hadn't been mentioned. At least not yet.

Leaning against her makeshift drafting table, her eyes roamed over the blueprints before her, mind mentally calculating the amount of beams needed to support the weight of the black and gold glass.

Every job had its accident. While not every accident was fatal, the bigger the artistic risk, the bigger the chance of a fatality. Eyes lifting to the unfinished black spiral, Rosaline let out a shaky breath. Glass was a nightmare. It had to be hooked and lifted by a crane where men waited to unhook it and set it properly. The smallest mistake and it would plummet.

Clenching her teeth, Rosaline rubbed her thumb over the small crucifix ring she wore. It was a staple and a comfort on these projects. _No accidents,_ she prayed. _Please God, don't let there be an accident._

The clouds parted, the sun peeking through, its light reflecting off the glass and causing a golden shimmer to appear.

Unseen Ilmarinen, Rosaline's guardian, moved to stand beside her. Unlike Valon who choose to move about in human form, Ilmarinen was forever as he should be, all raven hair, bronzed armor, and magnificent golden rays, pulls of the sun's light. Despite what one may think or believe, angels do not lack humor, that is personality. Ilmarinen is strong and agile, so very playful like the wind he was named after and every bit as necessary.

Peering over his charge, his warm butterscotch eyes immediately settled on her furrowed brow, making him taste her worry.

" _Calm yourself, my little floret. There will be no accidents on this day."_

Ilmarinen's voice was like a smooth ocean current, making one feel utterly relaxed as though they were bathed in sunlight on a calm summer day. At once Rosaline began to relax. Bit by bit she lost her tension, shoulders slumping while her features softened. Without warning she turned her head in his direction, eyes wandering yet seeing nothing.

It pained him to have her stare at him like that.

Ilmarinen had known of her since her Creation, the first whisper of her name in the Heavens. Every angelic being knew that she belonged to Valon, that he was to be her protector, but Ilmarinen couldn't help but be taken, moved by a mere whisper, thought, of her. When the time came for her spirit to be formed, Ilmarinen stood in the background awestruck. With every ribbon of love and light that created her, he was moved to tears. To say he cared for her then would be an understatement; truth be told, his feelings were bordering on veneration.

Confused he kept his feelings to himself, not understanding why he felt a fierce call to watch over her.

Then came the rebellion.

At the time, Valon was the most beautiful, the strongest. It was believed that he was approached first to disobey, but that he had refused. Not taking no for an answer, Lucifer had propositioned him again and again and again. Slowly Valon was won over.

Before that time, all the other fallen angels had descended to Hell alone. Valon did not. He took Rosaline's soul with him.

Declaring war, Ilmarinen charged at Valon with a fierce battle cry and pierced his brothers heart, freeing Rosaline's innocent soul from his grasp. Flaming sword falling from his hold, Valon could do nothing but stare on in disbelief until he felt gravity take him. Not once in his dissent did his reddened eyes move, sway, from the lavender orb in Ilmarinen's hands. And just before he disappeared from sight, he let out a cry of anguish that shook Heaven's door, vowing to them all that he would seek retribution, that he would take back what was his.

After Valon's fall Ilmarinen made to give Rosaline back to their Creator but was surprised to find the orb clinging to him, morphing into his light. Words didn't need to be said. He had seen the motion countless times to know that she was now his. But still the question begs to asked: was Rosaline always meant to be his?

Every day for a millennium he carried her inside of himself until her body was formed. He had placed her soul inside of her body himself, closing the seal on her spirit with a kiss and a promise of loyalty and friendship. Peace and protection. And above all, love.

It is a Guardians duty to protect, to sometimes remain in the shadows.

Playful like the wind, he had made himself known. Smiling now, he remembered her as a baby resting along his back, atop his wings, gazing at the stars as he soared through the night sky. The wind had filtered through their hair, mingling with their laughter and their souls merged, their bond strengthened.

It was his most cherished memory.

But like everything, they had their end. Rosaline's gift came without warning, terrifying her. To spare her further pain, he had pushed her gift deep inside herself. So deep that she forgot it. Forgot him.

 _One day,_ he spoke to himself, watching as she moved about, speaking with the head architect. _One day you'll remember me._

"Please tell me your joking."

Patrick Madden stared at Rosaline with a wry expression. "I'm not." Moving past her, he pointed at the center of building on the blueprint. "We need to take out these silver overlays and insert gold. Look, don't give me that look, Rosa, I'm just as pissed off about this as you are." Just like Rosaline, Patrick was a perfectionist. When he made a design, he changed it on paper and receiving the ok, went to work. Changing the design mid-process was not something he looked forward to.

"Trust me, I had to talk fast to keep the son of a bitch from starting with a gold line at the base. This is… this is the best I can do." His voice was laced with sincerity. Rosaline knew he wasn't lying when he said this was the best he could have done.

She stared into his blue eyes a moment longer and then rubbed at her own. "Tell me again where he wants it to start."

"Right here," he said pointing to another location. "And before you jump down my throat, I spoke with Scotts crew below. After this last piece," he said nodded to the glass that was being lifted, "production stops. We go back in to remove the glass, here, here, and there. Once that's done, production goes back to normal."

It took everything in her not to push him off the scaffold.

To Patrick, to an architect, it sounded simple. Easy. To an engineer, it was a nightmare. The risks on the job more than doubled.

"My guys will finish setting this last piece. Tomorrow we clean up. I don't want anything down below while we work to remove what's been set."

"But that…"

"I don't care," she interrupted, eyes blazing. "I'm not endangering my crew for your design."

Running a hand down his face, he sighed heavily into his hand. "Alright. Ok," he breathed in defeat, ruffling his tousled brown hair. "We go in when you give the all clear."

"Thank you."

Making a note in black ink she eyed him from the corner of her eye. "Now that that's settled, can you tell me why you're dressed up? Are you here to ask Arthur out on a date?" she teased, knowing the man was listening.

"He wishes, lass!"

Glancing down at his attire Patrick shook his head with a chuckle. "No. I have a meeting today with a potential client. I spoke to him about my latest design and he requested, well, demanded to see it preproduction."

Great. Now she had a busybody walking around on the scaffold where they didn't belong.

"Are you trying to be a pain in my ass today?"

Patrick gave her a sly grin. "No. Just every day that ends with a Y!"

Rosaline rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. "Jackass."

"You love me for it."

After placing Arthur O'Donnell in charge, Rosaline and Patrick made their way to the ground floor. In a heated discussion with fellow engineer Scott Price, Rosaline didn't feel the eyes that bore into her back. She did, however, hear the greeting that followed.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. March. Welcome to the site!"

Time froze.

Scott's heavy New York accent faded out as she became aware of the second hand on her watch. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Breathing in deeply, she felt the wind brush across her cheek, bringing to her nose the scent of cigarettes and Darcy roses. Woosh, woosh, woosh, her heart beat loudly, blood flowing through her veins. Without turning around she knew that it was him, that it was James and not another.

"Patrick, my good man, it's nice to see you as well," James returned smoothly, clasping his hand in a firm handshake. "Just look at this design. It's Extraordinary!"

As Patrick made a humble response, Scott was still speaking. Rosaline knew that because she saw his lips move yet heard no sound. After a moment, he nodded, his voice coming back in full force. "So that's the plan, a'ight?"

"Right!" Rosaline returned, not knowing what the hell he was talking about.

Nodding, he gave her a pat on the shoulder that would have sent her flying had he used full force, but as such it only made her stumble. "Better get some shut eye tonight, Rosa," he warned. "Come tomorrow, we'll have our work cut out for us!"

Watching him walk away Rosaline looked for an exit, not knowing why the need to flee was so strong.

"Let me introduce you to the woman who made all of this possible." _Oh shit._ Rosaline could hear the gravel underneath their footfalls, felt them inching closer. "James March, I'd like you to meet our lead engineer and my good friend, Rosaline Cortez."

All this time he thought it was a keen interest in her that sent him after her, quite possibly lust. How wrong he was. Staring at her as he did, James felt no desire. If anything, he felt like a void in him was being filled. And that, had him looking every bit as surprised as she did when their eyes locked.

For the briefest seconds, they were both given pause.

The moment stretched and James found himself relaxing, felt the air flow through his lungs as his lips pulled up into a small smile. She was dressed professionally, correctly in well-worn work boots, black slacks, and a white button down, complete with a hard-hat. But her face, dear God her face! Her cheeks were crimson, lips parted, stars dancing in her eyes, bewitching him as her golden skin shimmered in the sun. She was a woman in charge and every bit as beautiful, deadly, as he remembered.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Cortez."

Patrick looked between the two of them, brows raising. "You two know each other?"

James nodded. "Yes, but with a relation that could best be described as acquaintances."

Offering her a friendly smile, he moved forward and took her hand into his. "Acquaintance or not, this a most fortuitous event." Without warning he leaned down and kissed the back of her hand, sending bolts of pleasure running down her spine. "Truly," he breathed against her skin, his eyes smoldering. "It is good to see you again."

When the catcalls started, Rosaline snatched back her hand. Blushing furiously, she glared at the men around her. "Alright, alright, you've seen enough."

"How come you don't let me kiss you like that?"

"Easy, Joe," another worker replied, "you look like shit and he doesn't!"

Pursing her lips together at the men's playful banter, she issued an apology. "Sorry, they're…"

"Juvenile?" James offered with a smirk.

"And then some!"

Feeling the full force of his boyish smile, she couldn't help but smile in return. Damn. What were the odds?

Hearing a jingle both Rosaline and James turned to look at Patrick. "Excuse me, Mr. March, but I have to take this call."

"Certainly! Take all the time you need."

Turning back around their eyes met once more. "Come with me," she told him, turning on her heel. James fell into step beside her.

James fell into step beside her.

Though she stared dead ahead, she stole glances at him from the corner of her eye. While his hair was combed neatly back, he wore only black slacks, a brown waistcoat, and a pale blue button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. His black oxfords were polished to a shine and though he appeared out of his element, he looked anything but. He had no problem moving through the site, avoiding any and all hazards.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your train of thought," he spoke as they continued on, "but seeing as I'm going to be looking around with Mr. Madden, do you by chance have an extra hard-hat available?"

Had she really let him slip through her fingers? No, he slipped away all on his own. Taking control of her heartstrings, as she was safety nut and he said the right thing, she rumbled through a pile of vests and removed a ruddy yellow hard-hat. "One hard-hat."

"Thank you." Without hesitation he put it on, turning back around to face the building, giving her the perfect view of his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and firm backside.

Turning away, she unfolded the blueprint that was tucked under her arm, jotting down notes on the side.

"Did you know that you would be creating your namesake?" He asked, eyes glued to the top of the building.

"I'm sorry?" She questioned, losing her focus.

"A rosebud," he stated, lowering his gaze and peering at her over his shoulder. "The center design is a rosebud, your namesake." He paused a moment to smile. "I would imagine that a building in the shape of a rosebud, overseen by a woman named after a rose, would inspire a few jests among the…juveniles." Rosaline's look had him throwing his head back in laughter. "Do I even want to know them?"

"No, it's nothing bad. Well, it's better than the mention of my many 'thorns'."

"Some people grumble that roses have thorns. I am not one of them." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he glided across the floor, holding her captive with the heat of his stare. Stopping just before her, he lowered his head until they were a breath apart. "I, for one, am grateful that thorns _have_ roses. For you see, he who dares not grasp the thorn should never _crave_ the rose. _"_

Knowing he floored her, James gave her his most dazzling smile. "But that's just my opinion on the matter. I'll leave you to your work. Thanks again for the hard-hat," he called over his shoulder, "as well as your company."

For the rest of the day, Rosaline watched in disbelief as the men and women flocked to James, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Every time she snuck a glance at him she wondered if he was perturbed by her. No feeling came to mind. Anytime he passed her by he gave a sincere smile, cracking a joke or two with the people around him. Of course, it was on the tip of her tongue to question him, to demand why he was being so civil, so damn kind when he had run away, but the words could never work their way to her tongue. Perhaps… perhaps she should have accepted his invitation for another date rather than push him away.

Lost in thought, Rosaline didn't see the rigid shoulder coming her way. "Ah!" She cried out, her papers flying out around her.

Whirling around, she faced Rosso. "What was that?" She demanded furiously.

"Sorry," he drawled, holding his hands up as he walked backward. "Thought you saw me coming. Not like I _meant_ to-" Unable to finish, he found himself pitching forward, body slamming into the ground, dirt and rubble flying into his mouth.

For the longest time he lay there shaking, fighting, face pressed deep into the earth as an invisible specter held him down by the neck.

"Good God!" James cried, moving through the crowd. "Is he alright? The poor thing looks like he's having a seizure!"

Kneeling beside Rosso, James patted his back, making a great display of care as he helped him to his knees. "That's it, man. Breathe. Nice and slow now." Gripping the back of his neck in an iron hold, James leaned down to whisper fiercely into his ear. "I saw what you did."

Rosso froze mid-cough.

James had seen it all, their earlier confrontation on the scaffold and his shove. The poor fool. Unknowingly Rosso had signed his death certificate.

"Make no mistake that you will pay for it. If shoving is what you like, then I have just the thing for you." He pulled back, letting the man see the blazing anger in his eyes.

In all honesty, James didn't know where this protectiveness had stemmed from. All he knew was that he was livid, seconds away from blowing. Staring the man down, he silently vowed to apply pressure to his bones. To dislocate them. Pop them back into place. Again and again. All because he had dared to lay a hand on _his_ rose.

Helping him to his feet, he mockingly brushed off the man's shoulders, sending dirt flying out around them.

"There you go, all fine now. Though you might want to plant your feet firmly next time, never know when _you_ might _fall_." Pushing him into the arms of his co-workers, James turned on his heel to face Rosaline who was collecting her documents.

Reaching for another draft, she paused seeing the tip of black oxfords come into view. "You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?" He asked innocently, helping to retrieve her paperwork.

"I know you said something to him, James. You didn't need to do that. I could have handled the situation myself."

James looked at her pointedly. "I'm aware of your capability, Miss Cortez. My action was not to dismiss it but to let him know that his conduct was vastly inappropriate. However, if you wish, I will leave you to handle your affairs on your own." Picking up the last paper he rose to his feet, Rosaline following as he held the rest of the material out to her.

As she moved to take them, James kept a firm hold. "Rather than hiding it, you should allow your thorns to show. Don't make the mistake of giving men like him chance after chance. He'll get away with far too much if you do."

How true his words were.

He didn't get far before she called out to him. "James!" He turned around, his expression giving none of his thoughts away.

"Thank you."

A warm glint appeared in his eyes. "It was my pleasure."

A cable snapped and Rosaline's eyes flew heavenward to find a large plate of tinted black glass falling from the sky, heading straight for her.

A massive force crashed into her side.

Breath knocked out of her, the back of her head cracked against the pavement, sending her in a daze. Groaning she stared ahead, not believing what she saw. James was hovering above her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he attempted to shield her with his body.

'Are you alright?' He asked her with his eyes. 'Are you hurt? Are you…safe?'

Looking away from his wide, frantic eyes she stared past his shoulder. Her lips parted in a silent scream as the plate of glass inched even closer. Impact.

The earth trembled. Glass shattered, tearing into everything in its path. Blood rushed to her throat, shooting pain racked her body. Breathing became difficult and life felt…short.

The last thought she had before she lost consciousness was of the being who had sat in a crouch upon the glass, the one with amber eyes more maroon than golden brown. In her mind, he felt familiar. So familiar that her eyes fluttered closed, bursts of red and gold light clouding her vision, forcing her soul to whisper a name it had forgotten: _Valon._

* * *

I hope this is proof that I have not abandoned this story. Rest assured that all future chapters will consist mainly of James and Rosaline, with some angels and demons thrown into the mix, of course! With that said, I hope you enjoyed it and please leave a review.


	8. Run Little Piggy

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay. Please enjoy this new chapter. Also, if you're a fan of my writing and open to more than just AHS, check out my other stories as I'm updating all of them; it should tie you over until my next update if you do.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Run Little Piggy**

Glasses clinked. Pulling another bottle of vodka off the shelf Liz Taylor turned around with a smile. "Ok, honey," she said as she sauntered back to the bar in her black Valentino gown. "One last shot."

Balding and deeply depressed, Tom, a guest at the hotel, nodded his head. "Sure thing, d-doll," he hiccupped. "Whatev'r you say."

Sitting just beside him, Sally took a long drag of her cigarette. This, watching people get shit faced, was her and Liz's favorite past-time at the Hotel Cortez. And when you thought about it, it was a blessing in disguise: the patrons were too drunk to see the horrors around them.

Secretly the two women took bets on how far Tom could get before he keeled over. And with the way he was acting, he wasn't going to make it to the stairs, much less to his room, which meant Sally would be receiving a new tube of blood red lipstick courtesy of Liz Taylor.

"Oh, I don't know," Sally murmured, exhaling a plume of white smoke. "It looks like you can take another shot."

Leaning on the bar, she tilted her head to the side, staring at the man with her famous teary eyed smile. "Throw it back," she tempted. "Throw it back and help yourself to another. After all, the night is young."

"It's four in the afternoon," Liz snapped.

"Close enough."

Tom's ears tinted pink. "C-c'mon ladies, go easy on me." Hands already shaking, he reached for the shot glass and clutched at air.

"Little to the left," Sally instructed.

"Oh!" He exclaimed finally locating the glass. He saluted it to Sally, "Much o-ob-oblige…"

"Just take the damn shot."

He threw it back.

Both women leaned further on the bar top, watching as he swayed in his seat. Giving Sally the side eye, Liz politely offered, "Need some help getting to your room, honey?" Prints were back in style and she was determined to have Sally's leopard print coat and would stop at nothing to win.

The man shook his head, waving the offer away with his hands. "N-naw, I gots it," he slurred. Pushing himself off his seat, he stood next to the bar. "Ladies, it's been a p-pleasure. G'night."

"Goodnight," they echoed.

Heads together, they watched him stumble his way toward the staircase.

"Remember," Liz reminded her, "I said he passes out before he reaches the elevator, you said the top of the staircase."

Still stumbling and hiccupping, Tom reached for the banister and ran smack dab into James. "Where in the hell did you come from?!"

James barely spared the man a glance before he shoved him aside. Crying out, Tom stumbled backward, the back of his head smacking against the carpet. Dazed he made to rise, but succumbed to gravity and passed out on the floor.

Biting the end of her cigarette, Sally inclined her head to Tom. "That counts!"

"Oh, that's bullshit!" Liz retorted. "If March hadn't pushed him, he would have fallen down the stairs, and into my territory. So that," she said with a wave of her finger, "does not count." As if to further prove her point, Liz snatched the bottle of whiskey beside Sally's glass and poked out her tongue. "Sorry, bars closed-" James snatched the bottle out of her hand and took a swallow.

Sharing a look, the two women looked back at him just in time to see him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm not one to pry," Liz stated, taking in his disheveled appearance, "but are you-?" "What the fuck happened to you?" Sally interrupted, getting straight to the point.

Back of his hand still pressed to his lips, James was forced to look at himself. Quickly his eyes darted down to his blood stained shirt and slacks. Wiping his mouth once more, he shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing that concerns you."

Ignoring both their eyes, he made his way around the bar.

Whiskey sloshed onto the floor when he absentmindedly tucked the bottle under his arm. Ignoring the mess, he searched the contents of the bar, moving bottles to the side, dropping a few in the process. Finally, he struck gold, or should I say, moonshine.

Liz gave off a low whistle.

Collecting the empty glasses on the table, she put them away, making herself busy so as not to incur his wrath.

Sally didn't pick up on the social cue.

"You must have done something really bad to reach for your generations greatest achievement," she told him. Stubbing out her cigarette, she reached for another. Bringing it to her lips, she lit a match, the glow of the ftire highlighting her features. "…or someone did something bad to _you_."

James' arm shot out, hand wrapping around her throat. With a force that terrified her, he pulled her upper body atop the bar, bringing her face up close to his. "Go on," he said when she began to claw at his hand, trying to pull herself away. "Fight me. Do it. I'm dead, my dearest sally, like you I can stand in this position forever!"

Drawn to her fear the Addiction Demon appeared. The second James saw it, he froze, thoughts drifting back to the accident.

 **xXx**

Blood stained the earth. All throughout the construction site chaos ran rampant. While the plate of glass had hit its target, projectile shards went every which way, injuring many. Like wounded animals they cried out for God, for man, for anyone listening to assist them, their blood, bile, and excrement filling the air.

Clenching his jaw, James tore his gaze away from the carnage before him and focused his attention on Rosaline.

Tuning out the cries from the others, he took her face in his hands, pushing back wayward curls as he inspected her for injury. Blood trickled out from the corner of her mouth, the crimson hue he favored on her cheeks receding as a sickly tone crept upon her. "Rosaline?"

Staring at her abdomen, James watched as a crimson orchid took shape through the fabric of her white button down. _How could I…?_ He cursed himself. How could he have been such a damn idiot? He should have known better: the dead can never take a hit that was meant for the living. Why had he even bothered?

Eyes rooted to that growing flower, he knew why: he just… He didn't want her to die. Raising his gaze to her face, he sought out her aura. It was fading.

"Patrick!"

Patrick Madden was lost, unable to take his eyes off the large blood splatter in the middle of the site, trying to make sense of it, the blood, and the plaid- "Patrick!" James roared once again.

"Come here," James instructed when Patrick finally looked his way. "I need your help."

Stumbling forward, Patrick only made it a few steps before he tripped. Catching himself he glanced down and froze. As if they had a mind of their own, his blue eyes wandered over dirtied fingers, a thickly muscled wrist, a plaid sleeve, rising higher until all he saw was bone.

"You yellow-bellied imbecile!" James spat, watching as Patrick fell to his knees vomiting.

Pulling his eyes away from the useless man, James clenched his jaw and pressed his bare hands harder over her wound, doing his best to stop the bleeding. Despite his aid, however, blood continued to pour out, coating his hands and fingers, staining them with her life.

"DOCTOR!" He shouted. "Someone call for the goddamn doctor!"

Unseen Ilmarinen bellowed at Valon from up above. "What have you done?!"

Still feeling the effects of her soul's whisper, Valon couldn't so much as advert his eyes.

 _What have I done?_ "I have done nothing," Valon spoke in awe, amber eyes beginning to glow from within. "It is her soul which has spoken, freely, of its own accord. Her soul that remembers-" ' _Valon,_ ' her soul echoed once more.

Storm clouds gathered overhead, threatening to blot out the sun as Valon, moved to ecstasy, kicked off the air, arms outstretched, diving down, heading straight for her.

Descending upon Rosaline, Valon enshrouded himself in hellfire, red-orange flames dancing across his skin and hair, burning him from the inside out.

" _Come to me_ ," Valon commanded her soul, _"Release yourself from his hold, choose me—come to me."_

Drawing his sword high above his head, Ilmarinen called upon God and the aid of the Angelic Hosts in his ancient tongue.

"Defend me in this day of battle," Ilmarinen called, a mighty wind running around him as his golden rays expanded. "Be my protection against the wickedness and snares of this devil."

Light pierced the clouds.

With a roar, Valon took the hit directly in the center of his back, throwing him off course, sending him straight for the scaffolding.

Feeling the earth tremble, James snapped his head up, watching as tools and piping went every which way. Gathering Rosaline into his arms, he quickly moved, with only seconds to spare as some poor unfortunate soul—splat!

Jarred awake by the people's sudden screams, Rosaline groaned.

"Rosa—Rosaline?" He spoke, relaxing his hold on her as though he had caused her further injury. The moment he felt the flow of blood he realized his error and corrected himself. "Yes. I know it hurts, darling." He comforted over her meek cries.

Eyes fluttering open, Rosaline tried to focus on the world around her. Everything had been blissful, dark, quiet. Now she felt as though she had been flipped on her axis, not sure what was up or down.

"W-what-?" She broke off, coughing up blood.

Inhaling raggedly, she squeezed her eyes shut, crying out as shooting pain raced up her side. With trembling hands she reached out placing her hands on top of James, clutching to him as though he were her lifeline.

"A-am I—I d-don't w-want t-t-"

"You're not going to die."

The level of conviction in his tone stilled her.

Blinking back her tears, she stared into his eyes, willing herself to believe in his words. One hand on his, she pressed her thumb into the crucifix ring she wore. _Please God_ , her mind begged. _Please God, help me._ Even with James helping hands, she never felt so alone.

"You're not alone," James told her suddenly. "I'm right here."

Lips parting, Rosaline felt her mind absorb his words, felt her spirit… Looking into his eyes she became lost in the rich brown color. Just like that James disappeared from her line of sight as she stared at something only she could see: a tall black pillar tinged with maple, wisps of violet-lavender smoke wrapping around it as though it were a vine, making her feel at once safe and comforted. Protected.

Pulled into a trance, James watched as her eyes began to shift in color, flecks of violet appearing in their depths.

 _Was it—was her guardian near?_ No sooner had his mind posed the question when he received his answer. Every hair on his body stood on end, a sickening feeling rolling down his spine.

" _Do not release her soul to him!"_

Eyes nearly bulging out of his skull, James gathered Rosaline into his arms and surged to his feet. Pulled from her trance, she stared at him in shock. "W-what are you doing?"

James didn't answer, instead, he looked toward the Heavens.

Never had it occurred to him that a demon could be fearsome, after all, he had seen and could control the Addiction Demon. But this being, this… demon shrouded in hell fire, with black talons and burnt flesh, who was trying desperately to break a golden prism to get to him. Now that, was pretty damn terrifying.

Seeing the stark terror that graced his features, Rosaline followed his line of sight. Clouds. Grey clouds with beams of light breaking through, nothing obscure.

Rooted in place, James saw a bright flash of light head straight for the demon. At the last second, the prism broke and the demon fell free.

Massive canines showed themselves, the demons feature turning more ghastly by the second. "Give her to me, boy!"

That survivalist part of James said 'bend your knees, pull your arms back, swing around and release!' So why did he tighten his hold on her and take a step back?

"James?" Rosaline whispered fearfully when he kept moving backward, never taking his eyes off the sky. "James, what are you doing—what do you see?"

"A devil," he whispered.

Ilmarinen closed in behind Valon.

Watching as more and more rays of light broke through the clouds, Valon, in a last ditch effort, slammed his hand inside his chest, removing the unnecessary human skeleton from his frame. As though staged, the bones broke apart and came together, Valon using it like a massive whip. Swinging it around his head, he cracked it forward, straight to Rosaline.

Flames appeared, the bones blackening. Right before it could touch her James moved, his left hand shooting forward, dark purple light exploding as James took hold of the fiery whip.

"Impossible!" Valon roared, watching as the flames went out, bones disintegrating.

Staggered James fell back. With his vision blurring, he was just able to make out the demon being flung across the sky, as far back as the eye could see.

A nasty black bile spewed from James' mouth, his back connecting with the earth. Still lying half on his chest, half on the ground, Rosaline screamed his name. It was a beautiful scream; he carried it with him in his mind while everything else faded away.

 **xXx**

Snapping back to the present, James stared at the Addiction Demon in shock, trying to comprehend the flashback. _Had it happened? It had. But how—why—_ suddenly James had a sobering thought:if that indeed had happened, how had he found his way back to the Cortez?

"What's the matter, James," Sally taunted. "Terrified?"

Turning his head sharply to face her, James lost his breath. Sally's eyes were glowing a vibrant red, wisps of smoke rising from her skin. Suddenly his hand, which was still around her throat, started to burn. Quickly he tried to release her, to pull back, but she latched onto his wrist, fingers biting into his skin, holding him in place.

"Let me go!" He roared, struggling to pull himself free.

Cackling sounded from behind.

Looking back James watched in disbelief as Liz Taylor climbed along the bar shelves and jumped up to the ceiling, swinging from one of the crystal chandeliers, laughing madly all the while.

 _What—what the hell was going on?_ Swallowing hard, James looked back to Sally, his resistance increased tenfold. Lashing out, he smashed the bottle of moonshine against her head. Flames erupted, a sick black sludge pouring from her mouth.

"Ha-ha, better run, James," she sang tongue morphing into serpents and lapping up the foul substance from her chin. "Once Valon finds you, you'll be just like us, just like _him_ ," she said nodding toward the Addiction Demon.

"What's wrong, James? Did you really think that was a demon?" She laughed again. "Hahaha! Oh, no. Demons answer to no one but themselves, and that over there is just a slave from hell, freedom dangling before him to further torment him."

Placing his foot on the bar top, James pulled back, yanking his hand free. His hand was horribly burned, the flesh peeling.

"Run, little piggy," Sally chanted, hopping atop the bar, her nails, and teeth lengthening, body distorting. "Run as fast as you can!"

James bolted for the staircase.

Behind him, Sally and Liz began to chant in unison, _"Run, little piggy, run as fast as you can. No escaping the beast when the devil's his right hand!"_

Slowly the world around him began to morph into a wicked nightmare. No matter how hard he tried to ghost himself from the Hotel, he was pulled back, each morph taking him deeper and deeper inside until he was running the length of the halls, running for his life.

Rounding the corner, he collided into members of the engineering crew that he had killed nearly a century ago. They too were ghastly, eyes plucked out, mouths frozen in a silent scream. Pushing past them, James increased his pace running like the wind to the end of the hall.

" _Run, little piggy, run as fast as you can. No escaping the beast when the devil's his right hand!"_

Slipping on the carpet James pitched forward, the wind knocked out of him. Groaning, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees feeling as though he had collided with a brick wall. Shaking it off, he took a stumbling step forward and came up short.

In the distance a figure emerged, blackened and charred, flames erupting from its body and setting fire to all around him.

"Do you think this is a game, boy, a merry little chase?" The figure spoke, his malevolent voice making James shudder in fear.

All around the whispered chant increased its tempo:

" _Run, little piggy, run as fast as you can. No escaping the beast when the devil's his right hand!"_

Blood red eyes zeroed in on James. "This is no game."

"W-what do you want from me?" James shouted, not understanding the demon's words.

"Do not toy with me!" He roared, the ferocity of his words shattering the overhead lights. With lightning speed, the being raced to James, grabbed him by the neck and slammed his back against the wall, hoisting him up until his legs dangled.

"I want what you have taken," the being told him, "what's resting right there in your palm. And make no mistake, I will have it." James, who had been kicking and pummeling at the strong arm that gripped him, found himself frozen when razor sharp talons bit into his neck, shredding his skin.

Blood poured out onto his shirt, flowing like a river.

"There is no place that you can hide." With a blink the demon's red eyes disappeared, gapping hallows taking their place that seemed to peer into James' very soul. "I will find you, James Patrick March, and when I do, _I will tear your soul apart_."

How could such words be, feel, so absolute?

"Wake up, little piggy," the being taunted. "Wake up and… _run._ "

 **xXx**

Inhaling sharply, James bolted up, head banging against metal. Crying out in pain, he fell back, hands soaring to reach his head, yet slamming into steel. "Dammit!"

Frantically he tried to move, but he kept hitting—his body banging against metal, the echo of his struggle making his ears ring.

Falling back down, James breathed heavily, forcing himself to calm. Closing his eyes, he saw flashes of his nightmare, a demented Sally, and Liz, the Addiction Demon who had been no more than a puppet, and…

Opening his eyes James stared into the darkness that surrounded him.

Cold seeped into his bones. Slowly he reached out, fingertips tentatively trailing along his prison. And it was a prison; a cold, dark, metal box.

How many times had he sealed people inside walls? How many times had he been pushed into a closet, or locked away in the crawlspace? Too many to count.

At once James began to bang his hands, and stomp the soles of his feet against the walls, making as much racket as possible. "Let me out!" He bellowed. His movements increased until he began to sweat, heart pounding in rhythm with his fists. "I said let me out! Someone get me the hell out of-" A click sounded and James heard the turning of wheels, bright lights shining down on him as he was pulled free from darkness.

The coroner stared at James in shock. "How did—but you were just—you're dead!" Disbelieving gray eyes wandered over James, taking in the blue-tinted skin and shredded throat.

Bolting up into a sitting position, James grabbed the older man by his shirt and pulled him close. "Where am I?!" James shouted

"UCLA M-medical C-center," the man stammered. "More s-specifically the m-morgue."

At his words, James mind was assaulted with images: the explosion of dark purple light, Rosaline's wide-eyed stare as she looked down at him, the agonizing sound of her scream… Next came men in uniform who placed him on a stretcher, loading him into an ambulance; after that, it was fluorescent lights and the smell of cleaning solution, the squeak of sneakers as medical staff rushed to his aid. _"No heartbeat," the doctor had declared._

"No heartbeat," James repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Eyes blazing, James increased his grip on the man's shirt. Eyeing his ID badge, he asked, "Stuart, tell me, how long have I been here?" It couldn't have been more than a few hours at most.

"F-five d-d-days."

Lips parting in shock, James' hold on the man slackened, causing the man fall to the floor in a mixture of fear and wonder.

 _Five days? How could I have been under for so long?_ Was the entire dream five days long, or was he in darkness for most of it? Hands shaking, James fisted his hair in an iron grip. _D-don't lose your composure, James. Think. Think!_

He had no recollection of anything other than the accident, his dream, and the bit with the medical staff, all of which occurred on the first day. At least he thought the dream occurred on the first night. Five days… Had anything happened in-between?

Running his hand over his face, he paused, feeling an odd indentation. Pulling his hand away from his face, he stared in amazement at the scar on his palm: it appeared to be a square within a circle, possessing four distinct corners, knotted together in an intricate design. Running his fingertips along the scar, he found the skin to be smooth as silk, yet warm to the touch.

" _I want what you have taken," the being told him, "what's resting right there in your palm. And make no mistake, I will have it."_

"Oh my God, we have to tell someone about this," Stuart said coming out of his stupor. "This is just—you were dead. I tagged you myself, filled out all the paperwork. Now look at you!"

Stuart shook his head, in amazement. "Oh, the world is going to turn on its axis when they find out about this."

Closing his fist, James blinked, his eyes zeroing in on Stuart's. Dead and being sought out by a demon, James had no time for the living and their false ideas on the advancement of science. Until he knew what was going on, all of what was going on, with him, Rosaline, and… Valon, whoever that was, there would be no one left alive to speak a word of him, to draw attention to him.

"Turn on its axis, you say? That's such an interesting sentiment," James told him, eyeing the medical tools on the tray beside a cadaver. "Too bad it won't come to fruition."

* * *

Did you see that coming? Leave a review and let me know what you think!


	9. Whispers from Hell

**Author's Note:** Hello, hello, hello! I am so sorry for the delay. I had to purchase a new computer, the holidays came around, there were personal and family issues... Life just got in the way. But I'm here now.

21 pages, 7 thousand words, and not one, but two new characters! Lucy Liu is the face and voice of the first, and Javier Bardem will be the voice of Phinehas. And, I've chosen Luke Evans as our visual for Ilmarinen. Also, I've updated my Pinterest for visuals, so check it out.

Thanks again for reading my story, be sure to leave a review!

* * *

 **Whispers from Hell**

Through the wind and the sky, Valon's spirit flew, far away until night gave way to darkness and he began to fall, once more, into the pit that was his dwelling place.

A loud crack rang out as Valon's soul collided with his wounded body.

It had been too soon, much too soon to journey toward Rosaline. Granted his body had healed from the majority of his wounds, there was still a few that left him weak. Lip curling into disgust, he pounded his fist against the wall. A ghost had bested him. Not an angel or demon, not even a shaman, but... a ghost.

Just thinking about what James had done was enough for him to began gnashing his teeth.

"Sire?"

Narrowed eyes looked upon Yosef, Valon's personal human slave who he had acquired during the rule of Pharaoh Nitocris of the 6th Dynasty.

Eyeing the top of Yosef's wooly head, Valon dared him to speak further, promising to rip out if his tongue again if did.

Bowing deeply, Yosef folded his gangly limbs, saying, "F-forgive me for interrupting you, S-sire, but there is a visitor."

Yosef's knees knocked together under the weight of Valon's stare. Sweat quickly dotted his brow as the heat, if possible, increased in the large chamber.

"A visitor?" Valon choked out, wanting with all his might to smite Yosef from the earth, yet dared not as his energy was scarce.

"Do you take me for a fool, Yosef? Who would visit hell with cheerful tidings?"

Yosef's bow deepened, head touching the ground in respect as he whispered, " _Her_."

Only one person could strike fear into Valon: her. "Where is—"

"I'm right here."

Valon's eyes soared toward her.

She was handsome in every sense of the word. Fair skinned with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, bow lips, arched brows, and dark eyes. Her raven hair shined blue-black in the candle light, flowing gently down her back in loose waves. As she studied him, she tapped her lace Louis Vuitton heel, her fitted black cargo pants and shirt giving her an edge that contradicted her angelic face.

"Salutations Valon, it's been ages since I've last laid eyes upon you."

Nearly 700 years to be exact and during the Black Plague. More than the simple conviction of lust, Valon had instilled into the hearts of dying the desire to survive. And for those who were healthy, a great zest, lust, for life. Corruption of their souls had been swift. Relishing in his bounty, he so happened to glance up, look across the square and found her, dancing across the bodies and funeral pyres. Their eyes met and Valon fell to his knees, intense dread taking over his body, all due to a seemingly innocent glance. Only within the glance Valon saw more than he dared to admit, to even speak of: a light brighter than he had ever seen in heaven, the light reserved for the Light Bearer before she had—

"Your thoughts are carrying you away, Valon."

Snapping to attention, he flew from his spot on the chaise lounge and took a knee on the floor. Bowing his head, he said, "Forgive me, my Lord." His hands pressed against his eyes. "I shall gift you my eyes as a sign of atonement."

The walls pulsated with her pleasure. Yet, she did not accept the gift. "That will not be necessary."

He knew better than to reply. Lowering his hands from his face, he fixed his eyes on the ground, arms extended so that his palms pressed into the stone floor above his head, the perfect form of subjugation.

Silence filled the space around them. And then she moved. Her heels clicked with every step.

With his face pressed to the floor, Yosef had no idea he was in her way. He found out soon enough when she kicked him, sending him flying through the stone wall. Valon could only curse Yosef's mistake silently.

Chuckling, she stopped when she was only a breath away from Valon. Reaching out she ran her fingers through his hair with mind-numbing slowness, nails tracing circles along on his scalp. "I detest this form. Show yourself."

He caught himself just as his jaw was about to flex in agitation and did her bidding.

"That's better," she purred when he changed.

Because of his battle with Ilmarinen and James, he now bore deep gashes along his chest and arms. His hair was the only jewel, golden blonde and luxurious, a startling contrast against his charred skin and leather wings, the tips of which were fire.

"There have been whispers," she began tentatively, still tracing circles atop his head. "Whispers in purgatory, hell… Whispers just before the gates of heaven. Do you know what they say?"

Wise, he gave no answer.

"They say, 'that there was a battle on earth for a human soul.'" The pressure on his scalp increased. "That during the carnage, the demon was wounded." His skin began to peel back. "Worse still, they say that this demon was bested by a Paladin and was sighted by humans."

Jamming her fingers through his skin and into his skull she hoisted him up until they were face to face. "Are you blind to your solecism?!" She bellowed, extinguishing every candle with her fury.

"No. I admit my—" his words were cut short when her grip on his skull tightened threatening to shatter it.

"All that humanity knows of us is what I have allowed them to hear. I have twisted the words of the one before me, of man, and have instilled doubt throughout the world for eons, and engaged by the sin which you govern, you threatened to undo all that I have done!" She pierced him with her gaze, pupils lengthening. "It is an unspoken rule Valon, etched in steel that rests in hell fire, we do not show ourselves to the masses, not as we truly are."

Valon smashed into the wall, pulverizing the stone when she tossed him aside with a flick of her wrist.

"Enlighten me, tell me what you thought would happen when man laid eyes upon you. Did you even think of the consequences?"

Valon picked himself up from the floor. His shoulder was dislocated, wing bent awkwardly. There were so many answers to her question: yes, he knew the risk, but thought he could glamor them all; no, he did not think of an alternative if his glamor failed, all he wanted was her.

"I thought myself capable," he answered when he had resumed kneeling.

Her derision flowed from her like a might wave that hit him at full force. "And look at where your inadequacy has landed you."

From his position on the floor, he saw her shadow, saw the dragon tail emerge.

"If this was the Dark Ages I could see past this transgression." They both knew that was a lie, she had not a forgiving bone in her body. "There are eyes everywhere now. Even if I felt inclined to issue you favor and twist their tales, your wrongdoing was still committed." Bones popped, clothing shredding like tissue paper. "A grave, cardinal sin, Valon." She sniffed at the air. "Incense has been lit, hands that have been idle for thirty years have found prayer once more. All. Because. Of you."

Scorching heat filled the room.

She held out her palm. Valon crawled into it. "Consider my eyes."

Valon did as she commanded, one pupil the size of his entire body. "Who do you think this prodigal son calls out for?"

A true test of power was in place: Valon, though strong, could not speak his creator's name; doing so filled him with a mix akin to sorrow and bitterness. Repeating the name, His name, would remind Valon of his mistake, of all that he had lost.

Her palm twitched, nearly jostling him as she threatened to crush him. "Answer me."

Smoke and ash burst from his mouth. "A-ggh—g-ggg-g…"

"God."

Startled by her words, he peered into that lone eye completely and utterly speechless. How could she speak the name without so much as a care, as though it did not pain her as it did the others?

"Listen to me now, heed my warning: one soul is as good as another," she spoke. "Let your treacherous thoughts cloud your judgment, or act impulsively, simplemindedly again in your pursuit of Rosaline Helena Cortez, and I will kill the bitch myself!" Her canines lengthened as her dragon smirked. "Worse for you, like the creator you can not mention, or the savior you fear, I'll crucify you and force you to watch as I take her life. Whether she ascends or descends, trust that she will be kept far from your grasp." Her smirk vanished. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"That's not good enough"

Placing his good hand over the gaping hole where his heart used to reside, he stared into the eye. "Yes, Lucifer, my Lord and Morning Star, Bringer of the First Light, I understand your decree and do not object."

Silence hung so thickly between them that he feared she would mark him, rip off one wing, or both, scar his face and body with wounds that would never heal.

She surprised him by shrinking. Soon he slipped from her hand and to the floor, watching as the fire of his wings cast her shadow on the wall, seeing her form grow smaller and smaller until she was as she first presented herself.

Anger just barely at bay, she stared down her nose at him. It was her who cast the first light into the void, her who had stood guard, long before man was even thought of! She was the first, the greatest, the most loved—she turned her head sharply, disrupting her thoughts.

Gazing through the gaping hole in the wall, she took in the black sky.

Time had a way of repeating. If Valon gave his word now, he would break it in a century, maybe a millennium. Peering at him from the corner of her eyes, she saw the proud point of his chin, his silken hair, saw the vacancy below his ribcage and knew the Demon of Lust would never let go of his old charge.

Turning on her heel, she sauntered toward the opening. "Time is a treasured enemy, Valon," she called over her shoulder. "I shall look to it to see if you keep my decree, and you shall wait for it to enact my promise."

* * *

In another domain, a softly spoken inquiry echoed through the stillness, "How are you feeling, James?"

"Don't worry," Stuart, the coroner, said leaning over James whose back was laying on a surgical table, "the poison only accounts for paralysis, so you'll feel everything."

Unable to move or speak, James could only stare. Stuarts once gray irises were now black as pitch. "You have no idea how much I will enjoy this," Stuart continued with a vehement nod. "As a Nuance Demon, my… acts…are numbered."

"You don't know what that is, do you?" he asked seeing the confusion in James' eyes.

He came in closer, dark eyes roaming over James' face. "All these years you've been dead, locked away in your ivory tower that you call a hotel, and you don't have the faintest idea what lies outside its walls."

Cocking his head to the side at a full 90-degree angle, Stuart assessed James further. "They must have been keeping you under lock and key," he declared absentmindedly. Snapping his head back in the upright position, he shrugged his shoulders. "No matter."

Turning around, he darted across the room, collecting the tools that had fallen in his and James' scuffle.

"There's so much more than ghosts," Stuart jabbered, becoming more lively with every word. "Most people just think there's only angels, ghosts, and demons—worse and that every demon is a fallen angel." He snickered at the thought. "Not true. At least not for men like me—like us."

That alone made James' frantic mind come to a screeching halt. Not all demons were fallen angels? As though reading his mind Stuart, stated, "Sometimes, when a man is absolutely despicable, _she_ lets us play a bit longer."

Suddenly it made sense why James could control the Addiction Demon; it wasn't a demon at all, just a fallen man, another tortured soul who would bend to a force greater than itself.

The high tray beside the autopsy table rattled as Stuart set down his supplies. Humming, he made quick work of organizing everything that he needed. "Uh-oh, missing one."

Reaching for the bone saw Stuart added it to the growing pile.

"Would you like to know where I draw my strength, how I harvest my energy?" Stuart asked as he began to pull on his gloves.

"By means of torture," he answered for James. "I like—love, to inflict pain on others. That's why I became a coroner in my earthly life, to perfect my talents." He reached for the other glove. "I don't like to brag, but I killed a lot of people in the 70's, mostly hitch-hiking hippies who got their ends clipped on passing cars out on the road!" He said with a laugh.

"Would have been a notorious serial killer like yourself had I not been as careful as I was." He paused in his actions, looking at James with something akin to pride and disappointment. "You do know that's where you went wrong, right? You were careless, killing people left and right, letting them disappear in your own hotel. How long did you think that would last?"

Shaking his head, he resumed putting on his glove. "Though I do have to hand it to ya, James, you have a flair for bloodshed that a lot of people lack nowadays. No one will say it, but I think that's why you were able to go on, she saw greatness in you." He paused, specks of gray in his eyes threatening to extinguish the black. "Almost a shame to end it now, you could have been one of the great ones, like Servantus or Valon…" His face twisted in bitterness. "Instead you goaded death and take a soul for yourself, going so far to…guard it."

Had James been standing he would have fallen to the floor in shock. His mind was spinning with the newfound information: men turning into demons, the list of his tirades being shared about in hell, the mention of Servantus— _Valon!_ James' lungs constricted with his need to shout. That was the being in the dream, Valon, the one who was coming after him.

"This death, this new death, will seal the deal for you," Stuart explained with a grin. "No telling what you'll see, though, everyone's hell is different, yet the same."

Stuart's eyes blinked sideways as he remembered hell. "There will be fire," he murmured, "only it's blue… the hottest part of the flame. You'll have to fight for everything, only your limbs won't move the way you want them to."

James studied Stuart from his peripheral, doubting that he knew he was shaking as he told his tale.

Nails dug into Stuart's flesh."…gnashing of teeth, burnt flesh was torn from—" He stopped himself just short of tearing apart his cheek. Dazed he looked around the room. "I seem to have—hahah! Well," he joked over his blunder, "that's what hell does to you!"

Laughing it off manically, he smoothed back his hair, and told James, "You'll see it. All of what I said and more. And if the ones you killed were evil too, you'll see them as well."

James couldn't move a finger or single hair on his body yet he felt his heart tighten at Stuart's words. Oddly enough those words, that last bit of truth, haunted him more than everything else. "if their bad, you'll see them too." Could the one face he hoped to avoid be there waiting for him on the other side?

Seeing the distress in James' eyes, Stuart fed off it, his dark essence licking at the mental wounds. Soon, very soon he could feast on the silent cries of his torture.

Snatching up the scalpel, he rushed around the table and took hold of James' forearm. Demon or not, wicked or not, he looked upon the mark in awe. After all, he had only heard the whispers of such a mark; it occurred once every six to eight hundred years, and again that was just a tale… forbidden whispers of the afterlife. Never did he think he would see it for himself. But he was fortunate. Licking his lips, he studied the mark. She had blessed—granted him a favor. He was certain of it.

"Thank you, my Lord and Morning Star."

Pulled from his own tortured thoughts, James was forced back in the present.

 _No. No!_ James spat in his mind. He had spent his childhood helpless until rage itself had freed him. Not even death could hold him back, and he would be damned if poison gave him the slip. _Fight,_ he pushed at his mind. _Fight._

A tingle raced through James' palm.

The scalpel was twirled back and forth between Stuart's thumb and index finger. He had yet to take his eyes off the mark. "It's so…pretty," he confessed leaning closer, completely mesmerized. "Maybe if I… Just one little touch before we begin…"

The tingle on James' palm spread across his hand like wildfire.

Stuart screamed at the top of his lungs. "Aaaahhhh!"

Due to his injury, death revealed itself, his skin turning to its natural greenish gray, just like the Addiction Demon.

Smoke wafted up from his hand, the smell of burnt rubber and flesh filling his nostrils. He snapped his hand back with a snarl. He was so furious he was foaming at the mouth. "You," he barked, eyes narrowing into slits, "Did. This. To me!"

James' body still felt like lead, heavy and utterly useless. However, heat coursed through his palm, igniting a trail that traveled up his arm, through his shoulder, up to his neck and… The corner of his mouth twitched cockily.

Enraged by the amused glint in James' eye, Stuart lashed out, cutting James' face and missing his eye by half an inch. Blood, hot and thick, trickled down his cheek.

"That was a grave mistake."

The velvety voice seemed to come at them from all sides. Before either man could fully process the sound, to question it, the voice came again, saying, "Are you so imprudent as to believe you can succeed where others, all of whom more powerful than you, have failed?"

Shadows were blot out of existence as the overhead lamps began to glow brighter.

"W-what are you—there's no one alive here!" Stuart cried out, backing away. "No one g-g-good."

Footsteps shook the room, rattling the medical supplies in their trays.

"P-please, I'm so-sorry. I d-didn't know. I thought… It's just s-s-superstition, ghouls tales."

Tears pooled in James' eyes as the light radiating from the lamps began to burn them.

"Not only have you forgotten your place, but you dare to fool me with your lies?"

Stuart fell to his knees, hands clasped before him. "I…" The need to lie was choking him. Awkwardly he swallowed back the series of lies, and dug deep, pulling up not the truth, but the greatest lie of all. "Please, your…grace. I promise that I will change."

The thundering footsteps ceased. A single blink and the light in the room returned to normal. Still trembling, Stuart snuck a glance at the being. He blanched. Knowing the battle was lost, he gave a bitter laugh. "Can't blame me for tryin'!"

"The fallen will always try to rise," the voice returned simply.

Golden sparks ignited across the room.

"I stand to judge the soul of…"

Stuart flew to his feet. "W-what, you can't do that! I was already judged!"

"…with the power of He who creates all, ends all, I hereby condemn you to an eternity in Hell."

"I've been there," Stuart retorted. "I'll just get out again."

Something passed between the two that James could not see, but he felt the weight of the silence, knew that whoever it was had proved Stuart wrong. As though to confirm, the being said, "You were granted freedom to escape the line, Stuart, not Hell itself." The floor burst open, a large onyx boulder rising up to touch the ceiling. "Your shackle, demon."

Stuart slammed against the stone, body twisting and breaking every time he tried to pull himself away.

"Wait! No," he screamed when the boulder began to sink back into the floor. "No! Don't let me—" The earth and the sterile floor sealed over him, blocking out his cries.

Such a haunting sight and James couldn't see any of it. Not that it was out of his range, but due to the fact that he had gone blind. Pure white light obstructed his vision. Obscure silver figures came into view, close yet far away. A gentle breeze came next, bringing with it the sound of ever-flowing streams. There was life behind that light, a whole world. If only he could see it.

"Regain your focus, James."

At the swift command, blood red seeped in from the corners of the pure image in his mind.

"Come back." More blood, this time in violent arcs that promised to wipe out the white entirely. _Let me stay. Just let me stay. Let me_ —"AWAKEN!"

James' back arched off the metal operating table.

Pain wracked his spine, forcing him to cry out in agony. Slamming back down he gulped in air, regretting it as the precious oxygen collided with the bile rushing up his throat. Heaving, he barely managed to roll to his side before spewing a nasty, bitter green bile.

"Make sure it all comes out. Hold nothing back."

As if he would dare! His stomach clenched violently, muscles aching as bile spewed forth, throat straining from the force. When his stomach was emptied, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Blood from the cut on his cheek trickled down to his lips and into his mouth threatening to start the process all over again.

Quickly he clamped his hand over his mouth.

Dizzy, he felt himself teetering on the edge of the table. Just when he thought he would keel over, a heavy hand rested on the side of his head. The agonizing pain disappeared, replaced by fatigue, the cut on his cheek healing in record time.

"It's been a very long time since you've last felt this."

Felt what, pain? As though reading his mind the voice spoke again. "Sickness."

Spent, James flopped back down on the table too exhausted to even wipe his mouth. It took considerable effort not to wretch as the scent of his own vomit greeted him. Breathing through his mouth, his eyes darted around the room, looking for something, anything, to focus his attention on.

"Look at me, James." His eyes found the being at once.

The stranger reminded him of an Italian Renaissance painting, he was that handsome possessing olive skin and raven hair that fell just above his shoulders in loose waves, along with a sharp jawline and straight nose. He was dressed casually albeit sharply in a black sweater, jeans, and trenchcoat that did nothing to mask his powerful form. Looking him over, James tried to recall the name that belonged to that face, sensing that they had met before. But he would have known if he had, his eyes were unique: a rich butterscotch that held no trace of brown or green, just pure gold.

James' words were hoarse. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes shined like the sun, and a thousand voices spoke all at once to James, calling the man: savior, Principality, the wind, guardian, angel— _angel!_

"Yes," the being spoke having read James' mind. "I am an angel, more specifically, I am Ilmarinen, Angelic Host and a member of the Nine Choirs, Guardian of Rosaline Cortez."

"James," Ilmarinen echoed when James gave no response. "James?"

James stared at him without expression. Like so many others before him, he was lost in his thoughts, his own selfish, notorious escapades. So vividly did the murders come flashing across his eyes: beheadings, stabbings, how he had bludgeoned… His eyes fell. Righteousness radiated from Ilmarinen making James feel small, lower than he had ever been before.

"You will meet my eyes."

Large brown eyes met gold. "While your crimes are abhorrent, I am not here to judge the condition of your soul."

"There is much that needs to be said, however, time is no longer our friend but our enemy." A harsh look fell over his handsome face. "With every passing second, you grow to live while she fades away in death." At the look of confusion in James' eyes, he lifted his hand. "See what I speak of."

Despite the scuffle between James and Stuart, the cadaver had somehow remained untouched. Eyes rooted to the body on the surgical table James watched as a rainbow prism appeared, glittering in the light. Before he could inquire about the man's importance, the image shifted. His lips parted in shock, one breath escaping and carrying a name, "Rosaline."

Even with death staking its claim, she was riveting. Her silken hair had been brushed and hung about her in luxurious waves, serenity her last expression as she laid garbed in a white dress. The Darcey rose came to mind as he gazed upon her; it too aged gracefully in death.

A newfound warmth trickled down James' cheek.

Oblivious to the tears he shed, James gaze darted over her body, tiny pinpricks jabbing him at his center, right over his… _This can't be right. I saved her—held her in my arms. She was… I saved her._

Majestic colors danced about the room as the prism closed, restoring the false image of the old man.

Rage. Cold, hard rage flooded James. This is why he never believed: god, angels, they were all useless for they could save no one.

James turned his head sharply toward Ilmarinen. "How did this happen?!" He barked, barely able to conceal the fire in his eyes.

Chest heaving, James stared the angel directly in the eye. "Where were you when she needed you?" He queried. "Off singing the good lord's praises, perchance? Taking a stroll on golden streets, dipping in and out of the many rooms?!"

Ilmarinen stared at James in surprise. Just moments ago the ghost had been afraid of him, believing himself seconds away from being judged. Now, he was so angry he was shaking, eyes holding a contempt that could unnerve the strongest Seraphim.

The air grew thick with tension.

"Be careful," Ilmarinen cautioned, "you are forgetting yourself."

Black and violet sparks went off around James' form, his palm growing hot once more. "How could you let this happen?" He snapped.

He was a heartbeat away from standing toe-to-toe with an angel and didn't have the faintest idea why. Why did it matter that Rosaline was dead, he didn't think much of her. Even as the thought came to his mind, he knew it was a lie. Raking back the hair from his face, he saw in his mind the crimson blossoms that had stained her white shirt, felt her life-force weaken. _I saved her_ , he fumed in his mind. _I saved her and he_ —"You let her die."

A blinding light flashed throughout the room.

Glass rained down on them as the lamps shattered. He wanted to suffocate Ilmarinen, drain the angel of its very essence, yet his hand was poised just an inch away from his throat, blocked by some invisible wall. Jaw clenched, James glared at his hand, at the purple-black tint that surrounded his hand.

"What have you done to me?" He bellowed when he couldn't move his hand forward or back.

Ilmarinen's answer was surprisingly civil. "Far too much credit is bestowed upon me for your newfound circumstance. I have done only my duty. It is you who answered the call and rose to act as Paladin."

"I made no such choice."

"You did the moment you pressed your hands to her wound, solidifying it when you destroyed Valon's whip."

Stubbornly James' opened his mouth to object, but Ilmarinen silenced him by grabbing his wrist and turning it so that the mark was shown. Try as he might James could not take his eyes off the intricate marking, his eyes wondering over the four knotted corners and the square that lay within a circle.

"This is the mark of the Paladin," Ilmarinen explained. "The corners represent the four realms: earth, Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, which is why they are knotted as they are all on the same plain, thinly veiled from humanity. If the need should arise, you will be able to cross into each realm, but only can you enter Heaven if Rosaline is there."

"And…and the square?" James heard himself asking.

"That is your sanctum, where Rosaline's spirit resides." The corners of his mouth hitched in a smile. "It is also where you hide who you truly are."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Ilmarinen gave no answer.

"Where is this sanctum of mine?" James asked instead.

"Only you know the answer to that."

Batting James' hand out the way, Ilmarinen headed toward Rosaline.

"The soul and body are two separate entities. You know as well as I that life can be found in either form." Pausing he stared at the body seeing only Rosaline's face. "It is her body, the shell of her that rests here. Her spirit is drifting; if it continues she will lose herself and perish."

James looked at his hand. "Did you not just say she was in my sanctum? Can you not locate and…" He trailed off when Ilmarinen shook his head.

"It is not in my power to do so."

"Not in your power?" James repeated as though he misheard. "You recite a pretty title, boast of your rank only to admit that you have no power to do the one thing humanity expects of you!"

"Don't you dare!" Ilmarinen thundered, cutting James with his gaze in such a way that he reeled back. "There are laws that govern me, you, all of existence. Had it not been for you and your ill-intentions toward my charge, she would still be safe and in my care." The building shook. "It is you who opened the door to, inviting misfortune, not I!"

An angel could not lie. Every word was like a slap in the face, the bitterest of poisons that James was forced to swallow. It was his fault: he sought her out, pursued, trapped, and— _no!_ It couldn't be. He couldn't be the cause of it all.

Muscle ticking in his jaw, James looked at the body then back to the angel. "So she's to die? Just like that?" He cringed at the concern in his voice.

"Not if you find her in time."

"Why is her survival placed solely in my hands?"

"Because it is in your hands that she resides."

So quickly James pushed aside his concern and wished that he had never ventured out of his hotel, that he had just stayed indoors, or chosen another victim at the—"You say that, but you mean none of it."

James eyed the angel wearily. "Can you…?" He pointed to his head.

Ilmarinen gave a curt nod. "It's the power of the mark. The binding allows me to sense my charge while catching snippets of your thoughts."

Nodding his head, James swung his bare legs off the table so that they dangled freely. He took in the large scar on his chest, and his pink skin, noting that it was tanning like he were—"Is this mark making me human again?"

"As Paladin, your are sword and shield, what powers you wield you shall learn for yourself, but you will serve her better in human form than as a ghost."

James snickered. "So I'm to take a hit, any and every blow just to keep her safe from harm?" Ilmarinen gave him a curt nod.

Suddenly James' felt every bit of his 120 years. Rubbing at his closed eyes, he sighed deeply. He wasn't fighting, why wasn't he challenging the angel's words and saying to hell with it all? If he didn't know any better he would have sworn his mind had been altered, he was calm, much too calm.

"My presence is soothing to the soul."

 _Well, that explains everything,_ he though dryly, throwing his hands up into the air. _Almost everything._

Head in his hands James asked one question to himself repeatedly: why me? He couldn't understand it. Why him? Why now after all these—navy hospital scrubs slapped the side of his head."Have you lost your damn mind?!"

"We've wasted too much time, change quickly."

It was in James to argue, but his options were limited: either wear the scrubs or walk around buck-naked.

"Shoes?" He asked once he was dressed.

"I don't have any."

"You mean I'm to go around barefoot?!" He asked incredulously. "Look," he began showcasing his famed highborn affinity, "just because you're a…choir host…"

"…Angelic Host…"

"Right. Well, can't you just snap your fingers and have them appear, preferably a pair of oxfords with red soles."

Ilmarinen was insulted. "I'm an Angel, not a magician."

James arched a brow as though to say, 'what's the difference?'

Swallowing back his words, Ilmarinen returned his focus to Rosaline's body. A kaleidoscope of colors appeared as the prism shown; it rippled, the image shifting and becoming smaller, forming the sleeping figure of a little girl. "I will have to take her to a more secure location, I shall attract less attention with her in this form."

"Is this what she looked like when she was young?" Why in the hell did he ask that?

Ignoring his blunder, Ilmarinen placed his hand on James' chest.

Flinching James made to pull back and found his feet rooted in place. "What—what are you doing? Is this about the shoes?"

"Remember what I said about time, it is our enemy." Light surrounded Ilmarinen's palm, morphing into a small crystal sphere. "You will journey now to Death's stronghold: purgatory; it is not a place of purification," he explained, "but man's last chance at redemption."

Strong winds caused the building to shake, forcing James' back into the wall with bone crushing force.

"Both good and evil dwell there. Do not succumb to the visions of your past, or aid anyone you see; it is a trick of the mind for you, and their test. Leave them to their path, search only for Rosaline!" Ilmarinen shouted above James' cries, the power in him rising, growing stronger.

Laughter pierced James' ears, sweet and feminine. Perfume wafted toward him. Was this was one of the visions? A cry for help rang out. Prayers of thanks came next, and blasphemous curses to god and everything sacred.

"Wait, stop. I've changed my mind!"

"The paths there are many, you will cross multiple to reach her. As you search for her, think of your sanctum. When you find Rosaline, latch onto her and envision your sanctuary, it will protect you from evil."

Steadily James began to levitate, body rising along the wall, his hands floating heavenward. light as air, his body, mind, spirit… "This isn't my damned fight!"

Ilmarinen's voice was far away when he answered, "Call my name once you've found her, I will locate her spirit and journey toward you at once, but only when you are in your sanctum. I can not journey to purgatory, it is not my domain."

"Whose domain is it?" James demanded, needing to know who or what he would going against.

There was no answer.

Suddenly James felt formless like he was ascending some astral plane. Blue skies were now above him, the uneven soil at his back. More laughter drifted toward him, more… Shouts. Screams. There was a blinding light on his right, and hellfire on his left, but a single blink distorted the image, a lush jungle appearing with thousands of pathways.

Watching the gateway open, Ilmarinen spoke his next words in an ancient tongue. _"May your Divine Hand hold both shield and sword and fortify the altar of the heart. Let the Paladin fear no man or beast, fall for no trick or pump."_ His piercing gold eyes latched onto James' blank ones. _"…If need be, may you give your life without regret for the one whom you were chosen. And, may the Lord take a liking to you, but not too soon!"_

With a mighty roar, the ball of light slammed into James' chest, sending him spiraling through the gateway.

* * *

A great bolt of lightning shot out across the night sky.

Rosaline snapped her head heavenward, eyes trailing along the silver arc. She stood in the middle of a stone courtyard, surrounded by ancient ruins. Jungle vines wrapped around the old stone, tall trees and their limbs stretching out and swaying in the breeze, dancing to the rhythm of the night.

The moon hung low, close enough to touch yet unable to fully dispel the darkness that surrounded her, shadowing everything in soft gray light.

Turning her head to the side, she stared through a broken archway, squinting her eyes to gaze upon the river which ran swift and strong downstream, blotting out everything in its path like black ink. It was much too large to cross.

Sighing she took her eyes off the water and sat down. She brought her knees up to her chest, resting her back against a tall onyx pillar with indigo vines. Gnawing on her lower lip, she toyed with the hem of her white shirt; it was still stained with her blood.

Having awakened in that exact spot at dawn, she found herself so riddled with fear that couldn't bring herself to leave. It wasn't the location per se, but the sounds. Even when the sun had been above her, there had been howling, incessant howling mingled with ear screeching cries that struck fear into her heart. Over and over she told herself that it was a dream, that everything she heard…and smelled was a dream. Reality quickly set in when she had fallen asleep and awoken to find herself still there.

Wrapping her arms around her legs, she grit her teeth at the cold. Her blood stained shirt and black slacks offered no heat. She knew she would need to find food and shelter, more so that she would need to look for help. If only she could bring herself to leave…

Sniffling, she blinked her eyes repeatedly, refusing to give into her tears.

Praying had been a constant and for the first time in her life, she felt as though her words had fallen on deaf ears. Never had she been so terrified or alone—a twig snapped.

Gasping, she bolted to her feet, eyes scanning the jungle. Pressing her thumb into her crucifix ring, she uttered shakily, "W-who's there?"

Only the wind blew in response.

Swallowing thickly, she scanned the grounds again. Eyes were on her person, she was certain of it. She took a step forward. "Show yourself."

A jaguar's roar rang out and she jumped a foot in the air. "Ay dios mio!"

A velvet chuckled pierced through the darkness.

"Who's there?!" She demanded, going on red alert. Quickly she looked down, searching for a weapon. Finding none she silently cursed herself for not having done so earlier when there was more light.

"What are you looking for?"

Rosaline swayed on her feet. The man's voice was…heavenly; smooth, sweet, with just a hint of bitterness like dark chocolate, deep and carrying a strong Spanish accent.

The sound came from her left, looking in that direction she could only see tree branches, vine, and shadows.

Drawing closer to the stone she found her strength. "Come out of the shadows."

Leaves rustled. "Do you know who it is that you command?"

"N-no." The words left her mouth before she could stop it and she cringed.

"I thought as much."

"Where am I?" She asked, desperately needing to know that much.

"Between the 13th moon and 7th sun, just before the edge where darkness meets the light."

His answer threw her for a loop. "What?" She blurted out. "How is…?" She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I've lost my mind," she cried. "I have to, I—I must be in a coma, it's the only reason why the dream is this long—"

"This is no dream."

The stranger's words were like a bullet to the brain.

Even as her hands fell from her face, she knew, felt, his words to be true. "How long…?"

"Yes?" The man insisted when she fell silent.

Her eyes flew to the right now. He was circling her in the shadows like a predator. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Since the moment you arrived."

Fear trickled up her spine. "Was it—are you the one who b-brought me here?"

"No. I did not."

Relief flooded her.

"You are expressive," he observed. "It has been so long since I've seen someone show an emotion other than fear and grief, agony and wrath."

Frightening as his words were, he sounded sincere, almost as though he were a man on a desolate land who had finally come across another person, shocked, amazed… curious.

"How long have you been here? How long have I been here?"

There was a brief pause, the leaves rustling once more as he thought about her question. "Five days, you've slept for four of them. I myself have been here since the beginning," he answered. "The other's were cast below, I fell here."

"The others?" She asked, scanning the jungle for others signs of life.

"Yes, the others."

"So," she began, trying to wrap her mind around all he had told her, "people left you here, alone?" She moved to peer around the pillar, still trailing the sound of his voice.

"Your misunderstanding is of great proportion."

"Then explain yourself," she challenged, standing in the center of the square now.

The wind died down.

A long tendril of Rosaline's hair brushed against her cheek as a hush fell over the jungle. Nervously she turned in a circle, eyes scanning for his person. Had she angered him? He had chided her before, asking if she knew who it was she commanded, was he of great importance here in this… _Dear God, where the hell was she?_

Opening her mouth to call out to him, she froze when a light shone from behind.

Rosaline looked over her shoulder to find a mint green ribbon of light making its way toward her from the top of a tree. Is that why she hadn't seen him, because he was a hundred or so feet in the air, or because he wasn't… human?

"Do you fear me?"

Unable to form words, she watched as the ribbon of light took another shape, morphing into an anaconda with emerald and sage scales, and gold bands, it's green eyes so fair they bordered in-between jade and pearl.

"I asked you a question," he reminded her, "do you fear me?"

Rosaline moved backward until she collided with the pillar. Her hands clutched at the indigo vines giving her courage. "Yes," she confessed. "I fear you."

Emotion flickered in the serpent's eyes, too quickly for her to decipher what it was. "Most would deny their fear, yet not you," he marveled, stretching his length across the air to reach a low hanging tree branch. He wrapped himself around it.

The first thought that came to mind was to be weary, not fearful. Granted nothing she saw or heard made a lick of sense, she knew to trust in the serpent's words, even as it went against her good sense. More than that, she felt no evil in the serpent. He was as curious about her as she was about it. Or was it a trick, the effects of his hypnotizing eyes and silken voice?

"W-who are you?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The serpent stretched its long limb toward her, stopping just a foot away so that they were face to face. Again she felt no fear.

"Phinehas."

Rosaline felt herself smile, "like the bible?"

He inched closer. "Exactly like the bible."

Phinehas' eyes were enchanting. Silently they wore down her resolve. Stepping away from the pillar, closing the distance between them. "And what are you exactly, Phinehas?"

Fast as lightning, it wound itself around her body making her cry out in alarm.

How could she have been so foolish, so trusting?! Determined to free herself, she kicked her legs, trying to wiggle from its grasp. Phinehas merely tightened his hold, squeezing the fight from her body.

"Be still," the serpent advised. "You are no longer protected."

Protected?

"Let. Me. Go—aaahhh!" Rosaline was pulled high into the sky.

She made to curse him, to resumed her fight, however, she lost the will when she heard a lone howl. From her stiff position, she managed to glance down. Her eyes widened, a scream lodging in her throat. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!"

"A Hellhound."

The beast was at least twice her size, all muscle, with black fur and blood red eyes. Eyes that were focused solely on her.

"Pull me up," she screamed to Phinehas. "Pull me up, pull me up!"

Rosaline soon found herself perched on the highest, strongest branch. Phinehas had loosened his hold, yet she clung to him anyway, refusing to let go. "What does it want?" She asked not taking her eyes off the beast.

As though answering her question, the beast ran and charged at the tree. It struck the trunk so hard, Rosaline lost her hold and nearly plunged to her death.

Phinehas wound his body tighter around her, anchoring her to him. "I would surmise that the hound wants you."

Bark sailed throughout the air as the hound sunk it's claws into it, desperate to reach her. "W-why?" She asked taking her eyes off the beast long enough to look to Phinehas. "Why does it want me?"

Rosaline's violet eyes stood out against the dark.

A strange elation laced through Phinehas. How long had it been since one of her kind had entered his domain? A millennium, two millennia? When he saw that violet arc sail through the sky he thought it was a trick of the light, that his mind had run away with him. Nevertheless, he stalked that light and stumbled upon her. For five days he watched over her, killing every hellion, hound, and evil thing that tried to take her, if for no other reason than the simple fact that he needed her, more specifically her power. She was the only thing standing between him and the twilight obscurity he had been promised to.

"P-phinehas, tell me why?" She pleaded, gripping his scales tightly.

Staring into her violet orbs for a second more, he pressed his large face against the side of her hair, tightening his hold so that she gasped. "That," he hissed beside her ear, "remains to be seen."

* * *

 _Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!_


	10. Life Update

Hey you guys, I just wanted to give you an update on everything that's been going on recently…

Actually, I'm just going to jump right out and say it. I suffer from depression. I tried to manage it on my own, however, added stress and family trouble had me reaching new lows. I seriously contemplated, and nearly carried out, taking my own life. I am happy to say that I have since gotten help, found a wonderful therapist, and am in a much better place. So know that I have not abandoned my story and that I will finish it. I'm going to try to release an update by Christmas, but if not, the beginning of next year.

Thank you for every follow, favorite, and comment. Even when I was at my lowest, your comments helped to lighten my mood.

Hope you all have wonderful holidays.

Talk to y'all again with my next story update!

-Cynthia


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